Transliterations
by A Handful of Dust
Summary: He had attained the rights to be the Master of Death, and it was his obligation to steer the fates away from destruction whilst she reaped the souls to fuel Life. (Rewrite of Rewrite. Pun intended.) Re-posting of ikkiichiyuu's original fic.
1. Chapter 1

**I was recently overcome by a desire to re-read Transliterations, but upon scouring the internet could not come across a single copy, until I remembered I had squirreled away a copy of this fic some years earlier.**

 **And so, I decided I would also take the time to post this fic under a dummy account to allow others to also enjoy it once more. Transliterations is my favorite Thor/Avengers fic period and also one of my favorite Harry Potter fics. I hope everyone else will find it as enjoyable as I did and that ikkiichiyuu will someday return, if only to yell at me to take this down.**

 **I claim no ownership of Transliterations and had absolutely no hand its creation, I simply place it here to be enjoyed. From now on any author's notes will be from ikkichiyuu including what is below this. The die is now cast, let it fall where it will.**

 **A writer, I would fancy myself, if things would be. But take note, I do not write for others – I write for my own amusement, and my brand of storytelling is my own – I only share these worlds that I dream up.**

 _In between the dark and the night,_

 _within the day and the night,_

 _inside of the twilight and the half-light,_

 _Death waits... regardless of right._

He had never been able to fathom the reasons why – staying unchanging while the others around him had continued to grow older, weaker; more worn out. It had been nearly too late to discover his state of stasis, but the ripples of the war had obscured it well. Death no longer influenced his body – no longer sipped at his life – and it was unnatural, to not feel oneself slowly dying.

Debilitating wounds that would have killed any other were of little consequence, and the Healers who treated him had marvelled at his recovery and sturdy physique, chalking it up to his status of being the Chosen One to defeat Voldemort.

But with all his years spent under the care that the Dursleys provided, the lesson had been taught and learnt – to _never_ stand out. He had drawn upon those willing to share their knowledge, weaving glamour upon illusion and vice versa, carefully layered and augmented with potions. The time consumed had paid off, and Harry lived out a natural life as much as possible, mirroring the common age ailments that those of his age suffered.

But now, maybe there are inklings of those reasons, as he sends his last friend into the unknown.

All Hermione sees is the smiling visage of her parents, forever immortalized in her memory, standing together with an equally youthful Ron. She steps into their outstretched embrace with nothing less than elegance and a blinding smile, barely a glance for her aged body on the bed.

Death is a formless entity, maintaining no form till the instance of collecting a soul. She – he had decided that Death was female – appeared as what the dying had envisioned her. He has seen her in countless garbs and different skins, looking into minds without any difficulty - he has seen winged angels with matchless grace, humorless skeletons with scythes, enormous Grimms, terrifying faceless spectres, and the tender visages of loved ones long past.

There is a haunting beauty whenever she surfaces to claim a soul, shaped in detail to the eyes of the dying. The souls are reaped with gentle hands, and there is always the sense of an abundance in patience and care, no matter the purity of the soul – rare are the ones drenched with darkness and evil, but even then the sheer black taint from corrupted souls was always more than his stomach could bear. But still she handles even those with an aching sort of tenderness - absolving souls from the darkness and evil, leaving behind the silvery souls and shimmering threads.

The threads are precious evidence of living through trials and tribulations - memories, defining moments of every person. He had looked into them once, and had never done so again. The memories had clung to his mind and memories, desperate to live on and be useful as knowledge.

He has seen too much and yet not learnt enough - the Afterlife is the only mystery left unknown to him, barred from the passage that every soul was gently guided to. He has tried entry into Death's consciousness before, but the barrage of mental images is nothing but distortions of color, tinged with a chimeric range of emotions.

The deed is done, and so he stands from his perch at the window, just as the hospital staffs make their discovery of a cold body on the bed. He is done here - with the intersecting Worlds he has always lived in. There are no more dear friends as of tonight, and his children and godson have long flown the coop, with families of their own, survivors in times of adversity. There is no more need for Harry Potter, and there is good reason for that.

Harry Potter has long ceased to live in these intersecting worlds – the Master of Death stays at the window as a silent spectre, as unobtrusive as Death. Watches as they make their report - Hermione Weasley Née Granger has passed away... all alone in that hospital room, in the dead of the cold winter night.

He turns to Her, with one hand outstretched.

She has different lives in different realms, multifaceted as they are, and yet she is one entity. She is worshipped; feared, envied, and all living things live by her laws.

Her work is never done, and he is the Master of Death, after all that has happened.

She feels his call, and he takes her outstretched hand.

The room warps; it melts away like frost under an overpowered heating charm. He regains his sense of balance, and finds himself within a cavernous room, where the walls are carved and painted with astonishing lifelike landscapes.

A step closer reveals the details of a tiny painted flower, and he revels at the microscopic brush marks that lend texture and vibrancy. Five steps in retreat reveal the entirety of a meadow in Spring, blanketed in full sunlight and flowers so realistic that Harry half-expects the scent of flowers to fill the air. Neville's once-famous gardens would have been put to shame by the realistic artwork.

He steps further back, and angles his head to watch as the speckled lush hills give way seamlessly to buildings wrought of gold and silver, forests of green and rich browns, a night landscape with speckled with faint light from stars and galaxies… to the red-hot landscape, seemingly ravaged by fire and magma.

And then, he feels his heart dropping into a gaping abyss when he sees the opposite wall of the room. Everything is dead – ashy greys and inky blacks – even the living flame and molten rock have been extinguished. And the worst thing is that it sparks the realization that it is not just a painting – _it is the eventual truth of all that is to come_. It is a beautiful yet terrible tragedy, and the sheer realism of the artwork inflicts pangs of hurt in the recesses of his soul.

"Few have seen this room, and fewer still have looked upon it for as long as you have. None have committed the truth of this room into their mind, Master of Death."

He turns to the source of the methodical voice, and sees a woman; the darkest of shadows are clinging to her like a veil. She bows slowly, the shadows shifting and twisting to accommodate her movements.

"Welcome to Niflheim, Master of Death. I am known as Hel, and I stand in this realm, presiding over the dead of the Nine Realms who hath not passed under the glory of valour." her articulation prevails of gloom, and she remains immobile, not even shifting or fidgeting, "I carry the words of Death, for the only words that Death speaks is understood by the dead. The Hallows three hath decided on a Master worthy, and Death now implores you to save the balance of the worlds and all the life that it holds, oh Master of Death."

She speaks the words of his mute companion, so the Master of Death listens.

Harry slouches onto the banister, and enjoys the view of the vast estate of Hel's abode. The creation of her vast lands has come about from the bordering realms of fire and ice, and the perpetual mist and half-light lends a seductive allure to the gardens.

The mists seem to devour and strip everything down – the layers of his visual camouflage have been worn thin. The wrinkles on his hands, the age spots, and the thinness of his hair are mere memories. The white mist slithers over his skin, sapping colour until he looks - for a lack of description - deathly pale, like many of the servants that stalk through the hallways like wraiths.

He feels the constant tug at his life-force, but it is a futile battle. He cannot die, has not aged since _that day_ , and Death is but a companion to him. He remains immune to her pull, but he acknowledges the fact that he had been obsessed with just _ending it all._ Acknowledges the fact that he has tried and failed... several times.

" _Thanos… He is born of madness."_

" _The Mad Titan seeks to erase all Life as a tribute to Mistress Death."_

Hel's message – or rather, Death's revelation – had only served to compound the growing unease that he had been feeling in his heart of hearts. There had been a growing sense of _wrongness_ that only he could feel while living the remainder of his life, and now… and now, he could guess at its source.

" _Mistress Death only works to reap the souls so that life may be born again."_

He knows of nothing of the rightful course of actions that can be taken, compared to Death, who has had _purpose_ and _direction_ since the barest flickers of life all throughout the universe, long before the World Tree had even come into being as a seedling. She had seen the wanton destruction, known its implications, and acted accordingly, crafted objects for other beings to take up the mantle of Protector, but of all the worlds and Hallows and civilizations scattered throughout the vast galaxies and universes, he was the only one who had mastered all three Hallows – other worlds had either destroyed the Hallows... or themselves.

" _Without Life, there is no Death, and there is no Essence for which Life to be born again."_

Thanos was no part of the instrumentations of Life and Death - an anomaly. His actions led to the sheer destruction of whole worlds, affecting the balance of life _across_ galaxies; the excess of snuffed lives had led to exponential growth in others, collapsing whole systems.

He had attained the rights to be the Master of Death, and it was his obligation to steer the fates away from destruction whilst she reaped the souls to fuel Life.

" _There is not enough of Essence at hand to delve into the making of Thanos, and Death cannot unmake him."_

He senses Hel at the corner of the balcony, and strangely, she feels so familiar to him, though he has never met her before these few short hours during which she had dispensed the reasons for his existence. He acknowledges her presence, but he does not turn to meet her, "How will I know?"

Hel shifts, and Harry gets the feeling that she is smiling, even if he cannot see it, "There is no one judgment that is solely right, and there is no one decision that cannot be justified, oh Master of Death. Inaction or not, there are consequences."

" _I fear that you may only go back far enough to make Death's unwilling march cease in its footsteps."_

The situation weighs heavy on him, and Harry feels nausea from the bottom of his stomach.

"Fret not, oh Master of Death, for the threads of the Norns shall not encumber you. I shall see you in my far past then, Master of my Master."

There is barely enough breath in his lungs for even a sound of alarm or a choked scream when he falls backwards in the Void.

There is nothing that he can do - no air to draw breath to scream panic, no medium for his magic to condense into. And now that it has no outlet to escape, it shifts restlessly, like a caged beast that snarls tightly in his chest. It roils like the magma that he had seen long ago, a rare documentary on the telly that the Dursleys had not minded him watching from the closet.

He falls, and continues falling.

There is little comfort to be had, falling into the unending void in between the worlds. Death's heavy presence is the weakest of anchors, only staying his sanity _after_ he has fallen into insanity each time – a parody of a bungee cord if it ever was. The panic has finally gone, and it feels like he has spent decades, watching the stars brighten and fade into the black. He has drifted through clouds of dust and gas, watched the births and deaths of the lights he had once thought to be eternal. Sleep eludes him even in the eternal darkness, and hunger is such a persistent prodding that he has become numb to it. It is not as if he can die from anything now, anyway.

He thinks himself into insanity once again with all the 'what ifs', drafting the possible paths in his admittedly short time on Earth – he has spent more time in space than on Earth now, an eternity to be precise – and lives through one hundred thousand simulated lifetimes in his own mind before laughing madly and clawing himself out of the insanity again.

Galaxies swim past, and he looks onto the surfaces of the planets, feels their pull, watching as asteroids light up into shooting stars and burn out in the air. The worlds go past, and Harry discovers the true depth of the universe, underneath the dusting of stars and the kaleidoscopes of every imaginable colour, and declares it to be unending. He sees the fabric of the universe and the strings of existence that he identifies as _magic_ , in its unbridled and untainted form.

He spends another eternity – maybe even two – staring at it, unable to investigate it further. It is all around him, yet he cannot touch it, cannot investigate it, and cannot understand it.

Harry has only barely scratched the implications of his discovery when he arrives at his destination, of which 'arrival' is a mild way of putting it, and 'destination' even more ridiculous, because his fall through the void has been largely unchartered. Still, it is the only description that comes to mind, especially when he crashes into the ground at high enough speeds to create a crater wide and deep enough to fit the whole of Little Whinging.

The first thing that comes to mind is _sensation_. He is robbed of his breath, eyes staring into the blue skies above. There is gravity... there is the sound of silence... the is the hum of residual magic in the air... and then there is _agony._ The immense pain is a novel thing, his flesh burns as though it has been seared, and it gradually subsides after a torturous amount of time, adrenaline and magic coursing through his veins like a mind-clearing sedative, but the damage remains.

And for all his immortality, he is left helpless when his body and his magic begins to literally pull itself together. It feels like Skele-Grow all over again, except that the nauseating feeling permeates from the very insides of his brain to the surface of his skin. He can literally feel his bones in their attempt to _un-fracture_ themselves, and his internal organs slithering back together over each other, his skin itching something uncomfortable as it knits back together.

He does not truly need to breathe, but it is ingrained deeply in his bodily functions and his memories, so he does. He breathes shallowly as soon as it is allowed and a little deeper each time when his broken ribs are raised by tendrils of his magic, to avoid creating more damage and flooding his lungs with blood. The ribs are barely held in place, but he takes the deepest breath yet by far, and holds it in.

His mind cursorily acknowledges the sweetness of the air, before formulating a rigorous study of the afflictions along the span of his body. The list is exhaustive, and runs along the definition of horrifying – beyond the catalogue of comminute and oblique fractures, there are torn muscles and ligaments, ruptured organs and arteries.

His rate of healing is faster than the average human, but it will take at slightly under two weeks to recover fully, more than a miracle for fragile living creatures, but it means that he will be trapped in this crater for more than a week. Death stands at the edge of his vision, a watchful albeit translucent sentinel for the better part of the day as the sun scorches his skin. She quickly fades out of his sight as the sounds of clanking metal approach.

"My Lord… this is…"

"Bind him to ensure that he does not escape. He is to be presented to the Allfather as Heimdall as ordered."

The figures are silhouetted by the setting sun, and all Harry can do is concentrate on his breathing. His ribs crack even more when they apply their weight on him to prevent struggling, as if they expect him to exert monstrous force in attempting an escape. He cannot even make his pain known, there is barely any sound to wring from a parchment-dry throat. Harry blacks out when his still-healing wrists are fractured again by the sheer weight of his restraints.

" _Your thoughts will define the future; your actions will carve those foundations."_

When he awakes, he finds himself folded over broad shoulders, and Harry consoles himself with the fact that he isn't being dragged across the ground like a carcass, because the terrain is all sharp rocks and dead forest. The blood stays heavy in his head, the veins swelled, and the blood pushing against weakened walls.

" _I wish you luck, oh Master of Death."_

He awakens a few times to nausea before succumbing to the sweet bliss of darkness, but he keeps himself awake when he is jostled roughly through blinding whirls of light and movement. His 'transport' lands with steady feet, which Harry is thankful for, because another hard knock will not do wonders for his current condition.

"The Allfather awaits you in the Throne Room."

"Thank you, Heimdall."

Another wave of black overwhelms him when he is transferred from shoulder to the back of a horse, but Harry swears that the rainbow-covered ground is not a figment of his imagination, even if the nausea and the colours are reminiscent of the effects of Fainting Fancies.

He jolts awake at the sensation of falling, and Harry barely has the energy to give voice to the _sheer_ pain that screams through his body when he lands on the floor from a great height. The pain blots out his mental processes before it recedes enough to process garbled voices.

"….my King… Heimdall… war grounds… Elven… the one who fell from the skies. We set off for the lands of Alfheim, and found him where Heimdall had Seen. And by his word, we brought him back for your direction."

An unyielding grip pulls at his left arm until he is upright and on his knees.

The recent shock of pain has released enough adrenaline to clear his muddled thoughts, his magic roils deeply instead of healing, and Harry ignores the pain long enough to register the golden hall. There is a man – no, perhaps the best way to describe is – there is a _King_ on the throne, decked out in armour, looking down at him.

"Unbind him."

The shackles come off immediately, and Harry doesn't know what he should be feeling as the release in his restraints cause his wrists to snap back. The fractured bones rub against bone and flesh, and a strangled moan of agony makes it out between his clenched teeth.

His head is tilted up, and Harry's eyes snap open to see sky-blue orbs staring into his own. He feels his spine arch to straining point at the intrusion attempt, and Harry forces himself to maintain the mind contact whilst shielding everything but the pain and the truth in his mind. He slips a little, and there is the image of flowing red hair that flickers before he manages to reclaim his control.

' _ **What are you? For such a youthful visage, your mind is aged, and your veins sing of seiðr. What do you seek from the Realm Eternal – power, bloodshed, destruction and death from us Æsir?'**_

Even in his own mind, the king's inner voice is of tempered experience coloured with grief, with a hint of foreboding. It is an ominous mind, filled with thoughts of war and bloodlust, of power and subjugation. Years of diplomacy between different Wizarding Colonies have at least hammered home the importance of a starting statement, so Harry replies in deference.

' _I am Harry. I am my own person – I came to your lands through no choice of my own – and despite the hospitality of your men, I am disinclined to bring about suffering or loss of life unless in defence of my own… your Royal Highness.'_

' _ **Very well, seiðmenn. Tread carefully, lest our weapons make their mark on a deceitful heart.'**_

The connection is broken off, "Bring him to the Healing Chambers. Have Eir attend to him."

"But my King, his eyes are red like the Jötnar. He is the enemy!"

"SILENCE!" The hall falls silent, "his eyes bleed, not unlike a hard blow to the head. He is grievously injured, which is why Heimdall sent you to retrieve him, and his afflictions have been made worse through fetters and harsh travel."

The leader of the protest stammers his apologies, but if the King has anything to say, Harry does not hear it, having been lifted to his feet by soldiers on their King's orders.

The guards move at a more sedate pace, but his escorts are still brutishly strong, and his ribs protest at the frog march. By the time his escorts have brought him to the healing chambers, the route that they have travelled is spotted with blood conceived by violent hacking, and his mouth is slick with blood. At least the issue of his parched throat has been solved.

"Eir! Odin Allfather has decreed that you attend to him."

Through his hazy vision, maidens – there is only that one word to describe them – appear out of the flowing cloth partitions, dressed in white and flowing material. His mind flutters along with the movement, and a tiny part of him – that sounds like Lee Jordan – comments that survival rate of Aurors in the field would have improved if all the Healers looked like that.

One of the women steps out from the crowd, "As the Allfather decrees. If you would assist me in getting him onto the bed, honourable guards," the request is gently voiced, but all Harry can see is the flaming red hair, long and gleaming through the sunlight. It is a balm to his hazy vision, and Harry strains to see her face. They set him on the bed none too gently, and as the healers assess his injuries by poking and prodding him, one of them pours a honeyed liquid down his throat.

It washes away the coppery blood clogging his tongue, as well as his awareness. He recognizes Eir purely by the sound of her voice, and the tones of her voice accompany the caressing touches of the healing magicks – it is the only thing that keeps him anchored between drifting off into oblivion and the fleeting pinches of pain.

He is suddenly aching at the thought of her – he has seen her for a hundred thousand lifetimes in his mind – and he finally falls into the darkness with her on his mind.

It is twilight, but the large window lets in enough residual light to light the large chamber. He stretches his senses out for the innate magic that he has associated with the Æsir, not unlike a fisherman's net; the room is nearly void of life, save the guards at the door… and the lady healer standing at corner of the fabric partitions.

Eir. The shadows come into play upon her face, melding reality with his memories, and the moonlight sets her red hair alight. He twitches from the realization of her resemblance, and she is quick to show her hands, bared to the elbows as a sign of mutual vulnerability, "I mean you no harm, Warrior."

He stares at her for a moment longer, pondering her words and reconciling it with the events so far, before surrendering the tension in his body. He can barely defend himself at this rate without bringing an entire castle of _Æsir down_ on his head. Something more stays his hand as well – red hair and brown eyes and _memories_ and _heartache_.

She crosses over to his bedside when he relaxes, and Harry allows her to manoeuvre him into a sitting position. His tattered robes are gone, replaced by a loose fitting tunic and pants. He has long overcome mortification – it seems as though, even in different worlds, that Healers are indeed prone to frown upon bloodied and torn clothes. There is something to do with hygiene and the works, but usually the pain was too much for him to care about the specifics.

She is gentle, but there is an underlying strength about her like her fellows; a flick of her wrists and he would be the only one suffering from broken bones. But the contact is much relished; having gone without the interactions of another living being for longer than he can recall.

His lungs are pleasantly free of blood and pain when she instructs him to breathe deeply, though[1] the bones have a deep-seated ache when his ribcage expands. She tilts his head back and pours down his throat of the sweet liquid from earlier on, and it sends a rush of warmth through his body. It sends his healing muscles into relaxation, and then she begins to smooth his hair back from his face, "What brings you to Asgard, Warrior?"

He thinks that he murmurs something to the effect of ' _I have no idea at all_ ', and then the muted alarm bells in his head go off. The answers are being pulled from his tongue like Veritaserum.

Another sip is coaxed down his throat, and he cannot refuse either draught or question without becoming suspicious in her eyes. He cannot tell whole lies, so he settles for half-truths and truths obscured by omission, succeeding by keeping his tone steady and gaze connected. It is not an impossible task; he has spent much of his time in the Void dreaming up worlds and drowning in insanity.

"You heal fast," not a question, just a statement, but already he feels the compelling urge to tell her everything.

The barest of truths then. "It is… the heritage of my people." Magic _is_ a heritage, the Hallows have been carved from magic, and the Three have always been passed down from witches and wizards alike. The fact that he has the Three and immunity from Death are just the unforeseen bonuses.

Eir looks down at the strange man. His voice quavers that tiny little bit, and the cast of his brow reveals sorrow. She knows that look well - families and lovers wear it ever so often every single time she has to break the news to them. But her job is not yet done.

The question about his parentage invokes a bittersweet smile - Hjortr and Lilju, 'the stag' and 'the lily' - and Eir feels something like guilt at his strange tone of voice. It seems like a wound still very much raw, and she is digging deeper into it. And worse yet, the circumstances of his appearance will be made known to the Court.

The last sip will send him into deep sleep, and as the emerald succumbs to heavy eyelids, she whispers to him.

"Rest well, Haraldr, Son of Hjortr and Lilju."

With his searching gaze shuttered, she is now free to look upon him. He is a strange sight in Asgard - hair like the inkiness between the stars, a handsome face evident even with the gauntness of his features. He seems young, but his body tells a different story - a study in scars. There are runes carved into the sensitive skin of one hand, and several jagged cuts that run the planes of his torso.

It seems like barbaric torture, but the more she had looked upon them, the more it looked like that they had tried to kill him and then failed.

Few of the Æsir, or the Nine Realms, would have endured such collective agonies. She counts his breaths, and watches for any pain on his brow.

The study of his thick black lashes is interrupted by one of her sisters, who has brought salves to replenish the diminished supply and rags to cleanse the remains of dried mud and blood from the floor.

"The Allfather wishes for your attendance in his hall."

The guards escort Eir to a small room - something reserved for privacy - where the King and Queen are already waiting. Frigga regards her with a placid smile, but the Allfather has a mask of indifference.

"I am at your service, my King."

They motion her to the seat across them, and Eir does so.

"Tell me about the man currently in your care."

There is a moment of pondering where to begin, but her thoughts spill over into words after the hesitant first sentences. He calls himself Haraldr, son of Hjortr and Lilju, and… is still in pain from his injuries, but she can sense that he holds no detectable ill intent. There had been no cause to suspect him of untruths, for she had questioned him under the heaviest of sedative draughts.

He is without a doubt not of Ӕsir origin, and the tongue that he speaks seems to be derived from the Immortal Languages, though the turn of speech and words are sometimes ill-fitting. Hjortrson is on a mission of sorts, but even he does not have a clear idea of what he is to do, only that he has to accomplish it.

The green-eyed stranger is a warrior, jaded by _wars_ since his youth – many, _many_ wars - and with the trials and tribulations carved into flesh. A warrior unlike their own, for he is so much weaker than even a young Ӕsir boy. And yet, he has endured much more than that would have killed an Ӕsir.

Eir leaves, and Frigga watches as the Healer disappears behind the closing door. She has yet to see this Haraldr Hjortrson herself, but her husband assures her that the man is under a binding oath to not harm anyone unless in the act of self-defence.

She feels her vision cloud over for the barest of moments, and instead of the vague and heart wrenching feelings that linger in the glimpse of a long forgotten dream, there is something like change.

Something like _hope_.

Perhaps Haraldr Hjortrson is a sign of better things to come.

 **Author's notes:**

 **Well, it has taken me quite a while to get this done. This story is a mix of Nordic mythology, Marvel's Thor and Potterverse. The characters that I will be using are more or less 'canon'.**


	2. Chapter 2

**A writer, I would fancy myself, if things could be. But take note, I do not write for others – I write for my own amusement, and my brand of storytelling is my own – I only share these worlds that I dream up.**

 _6\. A man shall not boast | of his keenness of mind,_  
 _But keep it close in his breast;_  
 _To the silent and wise | does ill come seldom_  
 _When he goes as guest to a house;_  
 _(For a faster friend | one never finds_  
 _Than wisdom tried and true.)_

 _7\. The knowing guest | who goes to the feast,_  
 _In silent attention sits;_  
 _With his ears he hears, | with his eyes he watches,_  
 _Thus wary are wise men all._

 _ **The Poetic Edda, Hovamol, The Ballad of the High One**_

 **by Henry Adams Bellows, [1936]**

The second time that he manages to shrug of the lingering effects of the sedative happens just as dawn stretches gold sunbeams through the windows of the room. His magic is stirring uneasily to an unwelcome presence, and the Elder Wand materializes in his wand arm before he even rouses from sleep properly.

The pockmarked wood pulses with warmth, ready and begging to be unleashed, but Harry gently coaxes it back into the ether where the Cloak and Ring lie quietly with his holly wand. He cracks open an eye to survey his surroundings, only to see a raven at the foot of his bed, and another when he finally opens the other eye as well.

They are restless creatures; obsidian feathers glinting with their darting movements, snapping at each other and preening, though they keep at least an eye on him at all times.

Something shifts at the corner of his eye, and the ravens take off towards it in a flurry of King of Asgard stands at the window, and he mutters a few words at the two ravens perched on his arm before sending them out the window.

"You are awake and well, Hjortrson," the word is strange, niggling at his brain before he realises the term - son of the stag.

It is a statement that warrants a reply, and Harry speaks as the King tries to breach his mind again with brute force. Once is enough, and he fends off the attack while feigning a slight pain in his leg.

"With help from the efforts of your Healers, your Royal Highness."

"As you have deduced, I am the Sovereign of the Realm Eternal. I am Odin Allfather."

Harry keeps his face as relaxed as possible, but a frown still appears despite his best efforts. He has known it all along, but to have this confirmation that he is no longer on _Earth makes_ him feel like there is nothing holding him fast to reality. The panic rises like a tidal wave, and he barely acknowledges Odin's statement.

"You would have enjoyed a better reception by my guard, but war rears its head on Yggdrasil once again."

 _War and peace. Like Life and Death, Harry. I don't think we can ever run from it._

"These are times of unrest and unease - the Realms whisper of war and each have rallied their weapons and defenses. The sharpening of weapons and weaving of spells in preparation for war on their lands."

He knows where this is going now; Odin wishes to have him on a leash - at least a pledge, if not an oath, and a binding one, now that he knows that Harry is capable of magical oaths. No doubt that Healer Eir has reported the details of his somewhat prominent involvement in the wars back in his time.

Refusal at best would earn him a stay in their dungeons, and the worst would get him cast out into the unknown. There is also the possibility of capital punishment for a refusal, and Harry does not wish to find out the extent of his _immortality_ , because he has experimented, and has found that he is technically still alive with a body that is for all intents and purposes, _human,_ in all its weaknesses.

There is a roiling unease in the King's magic, and Harry submits to the circumstances that he has found himself in.

"I vow to provide aid however I can, to the vulnerable and frail, _outside_ of the battlefields," the vow takes before the King has any additional conditions. The oath is of his own interpretation, and Odin has little ground to demand another from Harry without portraying himself as a villain.

 _A war is a war if all sides answer its call._

 _Anything else is oppression… or a massacre._

It takes more than one party to escalate a war, and he does not even have a speck of an idea which side he is currently on.

Harry is granted leave to wander the palace by the King as soon as the oathe takes, but he makes no plans to venture beyond the confines of the healing chambers just yet. There is a certain sort of resonance between what lies beneath the Palace and the Hallows, and the Healing Chambers are shielded from the most of its effects. The guards are dismissed from their post at the entrance to the chambers, now that he is no longer regarded as a threat to Asgard. But it does not mean that the Healers are unable to defend themselves or take a life if need be.

The absence of the guards posted outside of the Healing Halls are instantly noticeable, and Eir feels a little lighter with the fact that there is no need for suspicion of Hjortrson. The rest seems to have done him well - the shadows have been chased from his eyes. Though she cannot explain how he has recovered from the effects of the sedative; the dosage would have put the strongest of Ӕsir warriors into a deep slumber for far longer than one night.

He regards her with as much of a bow as he can manage while bedridden, and she is glad to note that there is just lingering snatches of stiffness and pain in his posture. He is still in no condition to be going anywhere when she gets the opportunity to check him over, for his ribs are far from a full recovery, and the ugly splotches of bruised flesh marring his pale skin are everywhere.

She would sit and talk with him, but there is much to be done even in the lull. There are whispers of war looming over Yggdrasil, and so her fellow sisters and herself busy themselves with the stocking up of handmade salves, brews and draughts.

He is a silent thing, but even he opens up under the flood of cheerful chatter that her fellow sisters bring into the chamber. And with each question, Eir rethinks her label of him as a warrior - no Asgardian warrior has knowledge about the harvest of medicinal plants and the ways of their preparation.

All of the Healers have a blade in their possession, and though it seems to be used for no other purpose outside of the preparation of their craft, Harry has no doubts about their wicked-sharp edges. His suspicions are mostly confirmed when they acquiesce to his request to see the blades up close - heavy stylized runic inscriptions that seem somewhat familiar. He cannot read the script; the only Nordic runic set that he has ever used was 'protection' for the setting of wards, and even its use was restricted due to the prerequisite lei line intervals.

The blade edge seems thinner than a hair, and the nick on his finger remains bloodless and painful. There is a queer sort of hum that emanates from the entire blade, but the acquisition and application of knowledge has always been Hermione's forte. Harry has always been the one to take action on the immediate and relevant situations, and since he can do nothing but observe from the confines of his bed, he feels his own lack.

Still, he tries.

The Healers are happy to share their knowledge of the healing arts - though the details of the harvest of the ingredients is somewhat lost, he has no idea as to the locations - and gladly tutor him in the runic alphabet.

It is almost a full week before he is cleared to leave the watchful eyes of the Healers, and Eir leads him to one of the guest rooms in the lower levels of the castle. It is definitely a stretch to say the the chambers that are to be his for the moment is _humble_ ; the room rightly puts his previous 'VIP' accommodations to shame. The ceiling is high enough to make the room seem cavernous, with the light barely vanishing the shadows at the peak. The furnishings are made of handsome dark woods, and the fabric that lines the beds and the cushions are finely made.

Eir has already left during his discreet gawking at the room, but not before emphasizing Asgard's hospitality. All he has to do is ask for directions, be it the main dining halls, the Royal Library, the gardens, and even the duelling rooms.

The bed is about three times larger than what he has ever seen, and the fireplace brings a well of nostalgia that threatens to drown him. His wardrobes are bare but that does not stop him; he is no stranger to transfiguring even non-fabric items into clothes. The only thing that he mourns is the lack of sanitary facilities, but he has learnt to live without them for a period of time.

He walks, and then stops short.

There is a stranger staring at him from the other side of the mirrored surface - even with the near-hollow of his cheeks, the sum of his features have the effect of making him look unbearably young. His hair is far too long for his liking, with all of its familiar grey streaks gone. There is a terrible contrast between his hair and his skin, and he realises that he has not seen this version of himself except in yellowed photographs, and it brings back too many memories of regret and grief and guilt.

 _There are brief flickers of brilliance and smiles and adventure,_

 _and they are made all the more precious in the scarcity._

The situation is far too late to change his appearance to his liking, not to mention that it will be impossible to source out suitable ingredients in this Realm that will have the same effect as the magical plants that he once used. All the more, layered glamours have always been tricky, and the fact that some of the Ӕsir have some grasp on magic means that his disguise might be rendered useless.

The castle is a sprawl of hallways and twists and turns, made asymmetrical and nearly unnavigable due to the fact that the entire place has been carved into the mountainous rock. He has it covered in a backtrack way; a trail of fairy lights that dot the ceiling in a barely noticeable glow. It is an inelegant solution, for the lights follow that exact path that he has taken, and this means that he has to follow the way back to his rooms turn for turn. The other way would be to secure a piece of parchment and charm it the Marauder's way, but he has to secure a parchment made the non-magical way for the magic to truly stick.

His first meal outside of the Healer's chambers is totally coincidental to his wandering and slightly awkward; the blatant staring and subdued conversation that goes on at the section of the table that he has randomly slotted himself in destroys his appetite for the food. It is a pity, because the food reminds him so much of Hogwarts' feasts.

The height disparity is negligible, but next to the well armoured muscle of the men, he feels like a scrawny child. The pride of Aurors lay in their speed, magical ability and instincts, but the diagnosis so far is that even average Asgardians are less susceptible to injuries, and a hell of a lot stronger than he could imagine. He leaves as soon as his hunger is sated, and excuses himself with an intelligible mutter. The table roars to life immediately after his departure, and so Harry makes the decision to dine at the Healer's chambers in the foreseeable future just to avoid that situation.

It takes no less than four patrols to lead him in the right direction from his rooms to the Royal Library. His map seems to work fine; the mechanism is simple in that it uses his magical signature to map the structure like a sonar, though he will have to enter each and every room to label them correctly.

There are improvements that he thinks up as he moves along, but he will have to brainstorm on his own to achieve his own ends. He spends several minutes outside the library waiting for a guard to run to who knows where to get the key released for the door, because apparently, the 'library does not get used often'.

It is a pity and a waste, for knowledge to go to waste..

He does not expect the vastness of the Royal Collections, for it makes him feel a crippling sense of longing for the library of his youth. The shelves tower well beyond his height many times over, holding tome after tome.

And he certainly does not expect the Queen of Asgard to find him nestled in an alcove trying to figure out the language beyond the individual runes and the rare word. He senses her tripping his wards, but he only recognises her after the mental run-through of the Healers' descriptions of their Esteemed Lady. She holds herself with infinite grace, tumbling curls of the softest brown settling onto the shimmering jewels of the Nine Realms and the resplendent tailored fabrics.

A part of him – he thinks of it as the part where the Sorting Hat had _seen_ in him deep inside, the _Slytherin_ side of him – moves to take control immediately. The book is placed soundlessly on the table, and he unfolds himself from the confines of the chair, all the while keeping eye contact with her.

 _More caution than courage,_

 _tempered from failed negotiations_

 _and observations of successful ones._

He bows deeply, right hand over heart, but he doesn't say anything, yet. He _is_ British, and the customs have been drilled into him, by _Petunia_ of all people, on how to greet royalty in the exceptional _rare_ event – _youspeak only when spoken to_.

Her footsteps are light across the golden floor, and her fingers graze his shoulder, "Please rise."

He does as her request, and follows her motion. They seat themselves on either side of the table in the alcove, and the conversations start as most do. His state of health, her apologies on his treatment upon his arrival, the weather as of late… they reach a point where she requests him to dispense with the formalities. Of course, it merely means that he stops starting his sentences with the stiff formalities, her title as Queen remains.

His circumstances are already common knowledge to her, so he surrenders himself to a session of relentless prodding. He knows the game well enough; she seeks answers, and expects him to provide them to the best of his ability.

He has learnt from the best; she treads softly, but he sees how she responds to certain words. And all of those words pertain to actions that have yet to be taken, events that have yet to pass. He moves on to ancient stories about premonitions, prophecies, and watches her move just a fraction of a centimeter forward. Her hands pause in their fidgeting, and it is then that she knows that it is a topic close to her source of troubles.

The eye contact at that moment is the one trigger that causes her emotional despair to reach him; a burst of despair-hope-wariness that makes his stomach churn. This game of Slytherins is over, he knows, and it is in his best interests to calm her down.

It's almost as if she sees a kindred spirit in him.

So he speaks.

Speaks till the skies darken outside, matching the mood that he has talked the two of them into.

Green eyes are lost in a personal hell, and Frigga hears the muffled fanfare that echoes even in the vastness of the Great Library. Her husband has returned, and Haraldr mirrors her movement in exiting from the alcove.

"It appears that my husband has returned from his inspection of the artificers of Asgard. Join us for the feast - it is an appropriate time for you to be introduced into the courts as our guest."

There is something reluctant in his eyes, and yet there is a glimmer of something else. She cannot express how lonely he had looked in that instant.

He regrets his acceptance of the Queen's offer the moment the servants show him to his seat.

Closest to the Sovereign and his wife, Harry has been placed at the head of the table, where all the eyes are drawn to most of the time. He suffers by default, for he captures their interest once they spot him.

They hide their suspicion under well-meaning compliments; he is young by their judgement, and they assume that attention and attention is the best way to get into his good graces, having travelled from long and far without an escort.

They think him a refugee from somewhere else, and marvel at the unusual lustrous black of his hair, like the glint of the a raven's wing. They compare his eyes to the finest of the Dvergar emeralds, a colour yet to be seen in another's eyes. And deep in their hearts, they think him an abomination - too different from their own by far.

And then the bombshell is dropped.

Harry himself cannot believe it, let alone the entire hall of people when Odin Allfather proclaims him the newest addition to the Royal Court. He is to be an independent advisor to the King and his Queen, and the entire hall roars their protests.

Each and every protest is a permutation of the idea that he is untrustworthy, that he is an outsider, that he harbours ill will. That the King should think against it, in these times of war. They speak as if war is already on the horizon, and that they must gather to defeat it.

The chatter and protests are silenced by the thump of the King's hand against the table - like a variation of the sonorous Charm - and not one voice speaks up when the King reinforces his statement.

The food comes in then, and the mood seems to reset itself amidst the alcohol and and jeers are thrown up and down the table, boisterous camaraderie between warriors. Ladies of the court share glances, giggles and whispered words. The entire atmosphere is alien to him, even as he watches how they try to draw him into the fold, when he clearly knows nothing of the past wars and glorious battles.

There are still glances and gestures that he catches, all made towards him in suspicion.

He is loath to follow their customs when it comes to dining, choosing instead to use the cutlery provided over the warriors' choice – full-fingered grasping of the succulent roasted meats. It is a safety precaution; he would rather his wand to be in a firm grip if he needs it right away – perhaps to levitate one of these Norse Vikings should they fly his way in their bouts of drunken fighting – than do a flick and swish and end up impaling someone's eye.

He cannot bring himself to let go and enjoy himself - the food seems to taste like ash no matter how heavenly it smells, and the mead is far too weak for him to lose his inhibitions.

 _The lesson had been taught and learnt – to_ **never** _stand out._

That lesson is useless now; he cannot conceive a way to remain inconspicuous, now that he has been forced into this position.

The feast concludes only after a nearly endless session of drunken toasts and veiled slurs at Harry, and he follows the royal couple to a more private setting. The guards have been dismissed from the room, but he feels like they've backed him into a corner with that one declaration. There is the biting urge to do only one thing - and he would do it - though the fact remains that he cannot quite figure out how to end things cleanly without inciting the whole of Asgard's wrath after a successful attempt at regicide.

He remains standing, waiting until they had seated themselves, and then some more until they invite him to take the seat across from them.

"I give you leave to speak, Hjortrson," it is more of an order than anything else, and so he speaks.

" _With all due respect,_ Your Royal Highness, I find myself unable to articulate the situation you have put one such as myself in," the first part is an insult, but one that many do not get, unless they are British. It works just as well in calming himself down, a petty dig because they do not _understand_.

"As the Independent Advisor, you will be entitled to fortunes and benefit fitting to your station. And in terms of authority, you will answer to no one else except for us."

Harry feels the anger seething quietly at the collar that the Allfather has presented to him.

The apple is a heavy thing. It weighs down his hand just by holding it, and it does the same to his mind just by looking at it. It is the equivalent of an apple fashioned from goblins' gold, and beneath its skin lies the source of the Æsir's youthful visage, incredible density and enormous strength.

Eating the apples on a regular basis will help him to cope with living on Asgard if Odin is to be believed, but it will also make him one of them in terms of identity. He is already immortal, unlike their inherited longevity, but by eating it, he will be recognized as Asgardian.

There is little choice, anyway; if he does not eat this first apple, he will be cast out within the week, branded as a traitor to the Throne of the Allfather, forced to leave this Realm. Odin has already made the choice for him, and Harry finally sees the king for the shrewd man that he is.

He deliberates, but the decision can only be made with more information, and he is one against an entire realm, unless he eats the apple.

He finds his way to the healing chambers in search of Eir.

He appears like a wraith in the Healer's Chambers, and Eir's hand jumps to still her racing heart. The glitter of emeralds lock onto her, "My apologies for my unexpected appearance, Healer Eir. I… wished to consult with you."

She sees the apple in his hand and then there is the realisation that dawns on her face. She does not know then, he thinks. There is something like apology on her face, "I have an obligation to my King before you, Hjortrson," her voice is soft as always, and with that subtle note of calming.

Harry thanks her nonetheless, and makes to leave through the doors when he hears her last sentence, "But it would be wise to keep your knowledge of seiðr a secret for now."

It is a reminder, because there has been little else except sharp edges and polished metal outside of the Healers' Chambers. There is not a hint of magic in this realm, except for the Allfather and the Healers. The hour grows late, and Harry makes a tactical decision – magic is most likely not encouraged, but he can take a page from the Weaseley twins.

" _Do whatever you want to… the only thing to be mindful of is to never get caught._

 _The only reason why we get caught is because of the recognition we get."_

He summons his items from the ether – the Cloak falls onto his shoulders from thin air like an old friend in greeting, his holly wand grasped between his fingers – and spells his boots to be silent. The cloak and charms work, to his relief, as the armoured patrols pass him with nary a glance or twitch.

There is information to be found, somewhere in these halls.

He finally finds a suitable 'vessel' of information along the hallways - one of two sentries positioned beside a sizeable door – his line of vision somewhat coincides with Harry's across the hallway, and the man is clearly bored out of his mind. A few charms ensure that the man is relaxed with eyes open; a parody of sleep, albeit with eyes open.

He sends tendrils of legilimency through, carefully watching for any cause for alarm. The probe takes without any problems, and decides to investigate with Eir's caution as a starting point.

 _Seiðr._

Otherwise known to him as _magic_.

' _The House of Odin is a great one - it serves directly under the Sovereign of the Realm Eternal. He is under the Banner of Ravens, and he and his brothers in arms bask in the glory of serving the King and Queen of Asgard. They will give their lives in the name of the Sovereign of Asgard.'_

It goes beyond blind loyalty; this mindset has been carefully cultured - a distasteful name for it would be called brainwashing. He files away the titbit of information for further contemplation - it is useful, yes, but not immediately harmful.

' _He will be able to bring his clan honor then – as a second son, he has been drafted into the King's army just like many others. His elder brother has inherited the clan's occupations, a tedious position, continually seeking traction between the textile markets of Asgard and Alfheim.'_

Not useful at all.

' _He is glad for the brother born after him, who has not the barest hint of seiðr, and has finally managed to apprentice himself to a tannery. It is hard labour, but it is an honest work. His family would have been put to shame had his brother showed an affinity for the womanly arts.'_

There it is. He fixates on that bit of information, searching around for more. It is ingrained into the family dynamics of this guard whose mind he is in right now, and it is a common expectation of sons in the family, from what he gleans.

' _Seiðr. Trickery, fraud, unmanly.'_

The connotations are strong, and this guard himself does not know even the reasons _why_ , but seiðr is a taboo. It is a forbidden thing for men to even talk about, much less wield. Harry watches as the guard's past childhood fascination with the fantastical conjurations of seiðr practitioners warp into ugly feelings of deceit and trickery. It is a lowly craft to these demi-gods, who have countless years in the pursuit of perfect physical craftsmanship.

 _And yet, the Allfather is King_.

The first man in Asgard that Harry knows has at least a substantial grasp of magic in his mastery. He leaves the man's mind the way he came, casting memory charms and leaving the guard to startle out of his assumed daydreams.

His chambers have not been breached by anyone else, and Harry settles into the windowsill, watching the unfamiliar night sky as he contemplates his position. The Cloak and Wands are stowed away, and the golden burden makes its way back into his hand.

His hand has truly been forced. He is unwilling to take up the mantle of an ' _independent advisor'_ , but he balks at the idea being thrust into the threat of war between what seems to be several Realms with nothing but an entity that no one can see at his back. Death has lingered in his vision for a handful of times, but She has given no indication that he is to leave Asgard anytime soon.

He would play Odin's game, for now.

 _And he will give as good as he gets._

The taste of the apple explodes with a crunch, and the sweet tang of it is heavy. It seeps down his throat, and travels deep into his bones. Strengthening, reinforcing, refreshing. Mind, body, soul, _magic_. But something is missing , he knows.

And he doesn't expect to find it.

Her reflection stares back as her, as she brushes out her hair. The words from before the feast are still looping in her head, and she deliberates on her encounter with Haraldr Hjortrson. She would have mistaken him for a young Æsir boy, barely of age, but his graceful gestures and mannerisms had been that of a man who knew the subtleties of politeness and deference.

He had seen her for who she was.

" _I do not see futures, your Majesty. But I know of those in my time, and those long before my time… throughout the histories of many Kingdoms of my world. Those who could speak of the future were oft thought to be mad. The prophecies were made, and many forgotten."_

He had spoken of a world so vast that she could hardly fathom it - the Realm Eternal and most of the other Realms were under the rule of one king.

" _There were stories of true prophets, cursed by their gifts until their kingdom fell into ruin, for no one would believe a single word. Others led kingdoms to their doom, for the gift of their sight was retracted following the corruption of their hearts. There were false prophets as well, proclaiming the end of the world, their words made believable only through their eloquence."_

" _But my people were different. The prophecies uttered were made secret, sealed away from all minds, even by the ones who had given voice to them. There were great Seers, who proved the accuracy of their gifts time and again, but their bloodlines faltered under expectations. To this day, I only know of two which came true in my lifetime."_

" _The first one was overheard by a man of knowledge seeking power, what he heard was incomplete in such that there were many ways to interpret it. The sacred practice was broken, and the information was passed on to a corrupted mind, a man who sought power through knowledge, and freedom from Death."_

" _He disliked the idea of Death, that it was an ugly thing. That it was weak to succumb to Death. But the root of kindness to others lies forevermore in mortality, and in his quest of never dying, he ceased to never live as well, forever caught in the boundaries of life and death, always subconsciously destroying lives to sustain his state of non-death."_

" _It was obsessed over, and the prophesied became the eventuality."_

" _The prophecy involved two, a man who sought destruction, and a child who had not yet known the evils of the world. He was vanquished no less than eight times in a span of eighteen years, and with each loss of his fractured soul, he took something from that child."_

He had looked at her then, and then she understood.

" _I was a martyr when I was a child, and I was forever so in their eyes."_

" _A prophecy is merely a destination in time. There is no context to it, until the actions of our own hands come into play. The actions of other beings, other minds, those who try to make it happen, those who try to prevent it…"_

" _So you see? A prophecy is a mere point on the path of fate."_

She could tell no one of her prophetic dreams, only able to dream of them night after night. But now, she thinks that she could learn to forget them instead of spending sleepless hours wondering at the blurred faces of those that her dream-self sees.


	3. Chapter 3

**A writer, I would fancy myself, if things could be. But take note, I do not write for others – I write for my own amusement, and my brand of storytelling is my own – I only share these worlds that I dream up.**

 _142\. Then began I to thrive, | and wisdom to get,_

 _I grew and well I was;_

 _Each word led me on | to another word,_

 _Each deed to another deed._

 _ **The Poetic Edda, Hovamol, The Ballad of the High One**_

 **by Henry Adams Bellows, [1936]**

Asgard is a strange place: the landscape is intolerably perfect even in the dead of the night. The starlight rains down, illuminating everything perfectly such that it is never truly dark at night. The Rainbow Bridge - they call it the Asbrú - provides an easy point of reference when Harry takes secret walks about at night.

And even when the sun stretches its light across the skies, the light of the stars can still be seen. The sunrise has taken place hours ago, but the daylight hours here are impossibly long; so much so that the sun has barely cleared the horizon when he answers the knock at the door.

There is an army awaiting him at the door, armed with bolts of cloth and swathes of fabric. They claim themselves to be the Royal Clothiers, sent by the Queen of Asgard.

He relents to their flustering, and they push their way into the room while dragging him into the center of the room. His measurements are taken methodically, and they puzzle over the cut of his clothes and the evident lack of stitches on his transfigured clothes. There are no seams or stitches in his clothes, and they comment on the absence of decorative designs on the obviously fine fabric.

 _Everything is melded together,_

 _nothing for the catching fingers of sharp branches and briars._

He does not say anything to their questions, and they soon catch on. They leave after doing a professional job; a hefty selection of pre-made linen garments with the closest fit to his stature. The layers are logical, and it is just as well that they have left behind a small mountain of fabric - he has grown weary of cleaning charms and transfigured clothing.

He recalls information from his mind walking from the soldier last night, and looks at the selection thoughtfully. The cloths used are in varied shades of vibrancy; red, blue, green, yellow, white, black, with embroidery for contrast and variety, sometimes including gold and silver threads. And all of these colours differ in meanings and station.

The gold and reds are out; neither of Asgard nor a warrior in their terms. Blue is representative of Odin, an allegiance that he would rather not enforce as an _independent advisor_. He has never looked good in yellow, and the white fabrics are nearly as white as his skin, a lingering aftereffect from the realm of Hel.

He smirks at the _practical_ choices that he has left _– he has never felt so Slytherin_ – let it not be remembered that he has failed to declare his alignment with the magic that they so _condemn_. The Elder Wand slips into his hand at the mere thought of magic, and he swishes his wand to change the colours of his garments. Dark greens and blacks, the colourful embroideries shifting to white, silver and gold. Charms to ensure their fit, more to ensure their integrity, protections to guard against sharpened metal and intent to harm – all standard practices he has honed over a long time.

 _A new beginning, hidden knowledge, all concealed from plain sight._

He has little else to guard his back.

The summons to a deliberative assembly of the Royal Court is something born from slyness and trickery - barely has a day passed since the announcement of his post as Odin's Advisor, and it is close to two hours before the stated start of the meeting. It is underhanded, this attempt to fluster him - too little time to prepare for what is to come and too much time to panic - but he has had more than plenty of experience in the dark side of politics to handle this.

So he takes his time, dresses in the finest of the clothes that Frigga has thought to leave him with. He keeps his mental shields up as an exercise in calm, even as he makes his way to an assembly of strangers that he has never seen before.

The members of the meeting have already been seated when he makes his entrance, which makes the search for his seat an easy affair. Odin is greeted the same way that he had greeted the Queen before the feast; deep bow with the hand to the heart, while the table watches silently.

He accords every single one of them with a solid second of eye contact, and finds himself somewhat impressed with their semblance of solidarity - this particular sort of camaraderie is rare in the line of murderers, cheats, thieves and soulless puppets. Already they have begun to plot his death.

The last one is the Allfather at the opposite end of the table, and Harry bares the slightest glimpse of his teeth in a parody of a smile, "Shall we begin this meet, gentlemen?"

Of course, it is an insult to a table of warriors. There is a brief moment of civility that follows, that Harry does not return in kind, and then the fangs are unveiled along with politely death threats when the thorough interrogations begin.

The barbed questions are nothing; it is the amusement that radiates from Odin that annoys him very much. Nevertheless, he has learnt and put into practice from the best. Deflecting questions and placing doubt in each other is an easy thing when everyone has something to conceal. He claims ignorance of their ways, and after they accept his explanation, the tilt of his head and the barest glimpse of a knowing smile serves to make them feel like the fool.

He is not here to make friends.

He continues to catch their eyes, skimming thoughts and reading physical gestures. He knows that the table is both jealous and envious of his appointed position in the courts, and thinly veiled with their seething thoughts, and the rest of the meeting quickly devolves into chaos when he finally loses his patience, and releases a mild fear-inducing hex in retaliation to the increasingly aggressive slights to his person and apparent age. The assembly of men start to turn on each other, and Harry shrugs before discreetly summoning an apple from the middle of the table.

The commotion carries on, only suddenly freezing when the crunch of the apple resounds through the room. Harry pauses to chew and swallow while they stare before speaking with a smirk, "Oh. Forgive me for disrupting. Do carry on with the entertainment."

The room settles down quickly, and the Allfather cannot quite keep a straight face when the next assembly is scheduled tentatively in a year's time– apparently there is nothing of import to discuss among such long-lived lives. It is as well; he has time to prepare for the courtly matters of Asgard the next time he sees them.

He doesn't get up when the meeting is adjourned; just watches them as they leave the hall, and he is quick to send them a placid smile when they glance back at him, skimming their thoughts through those milliseconds of eye contact.

He isn't surprised at the paranoia in their thoughts – very few are fearless of the unknown, and all of those few are fools – and he will not succumb to his _untimely_ demise when it comes.

The doors close after the members of the Royal Court, the dull sound of metal resounding throughout the hall. Harry gets up from his seat, but he doesn't move closer to the seats on either side of the King - he bears neither _honour_ of being the King's right or left-hand man.

He knows that the King sees him as a tool, bound and leashed by two Oaths reinforcing each other. This is a contract that stretches deep into his psyche, compelling him to keep to them regardless of the circumstances.

So he bows once again, right hand over heart, and does not straighten from his posture until he hears the words.

"Rise, Haraldr."

He does so, looking into those eyes without a word.

"Be at ease. Take a seat. You may speak freely," Harry resists the urge to _bark_ – because _he's such a good boy_! – and acquiesces. He only plays these games of silence because he knows that all men here are used to the blustering of others bedecked in metal and hide, and fumble when faced with silence.

"What would you _wish_ to hear, Allfather?"

 _Truths, half-truths, outright lies, nonsensical strings of words, he knows it all, enough times to replicate it without a single flaw._

He watches the King frown at the specifically worded sentence, "I will hear your thoughts on the members of the Royal Courts then."

"Very well," is all he says before launching into the details that he has gathered along the duration of the tedious meeting. He does not care whether the Allfather will take his words at face value - he is past that.

Night falls upon Asgard, and Harry has long escaped from the nightly dinner with his own plates of food. Outside, the wind is sharp and biting in its coldness, but it is an annoyance quietly resolved by a marriage of heating and shielding charms.

He sets the plates aside, turns his face upwards to watch the sheer brilliance of the stars suspended in the black velvet. There are billions upon billions upon them, and no matter how he looks at them, it feels odd.

Odd to see so many and yet not recognize any of the constellations that he had marked on star charts on nights like this. Odder still to see the stars while anchored to the ground, after his eternity-long jaunt through the universe.

And yet, they still blink tirelessly at him , scattered as they are across the heavens. He makes a vague resolution to look up constellations and astronomy in the library, and decides that _maybe, just maybe, it is for the best that he cannot read ahead through the stars_ ; somewhere in the vast universe of stars and galaxies, he cannot see if Mars burns bright on the nights of bloodshed.

He can imagine Hermione's excitement at the sheer number of texts that line just one bookshelf; merely 'a tiny leaf from the ancient knowledge and histories of the World Tree'. They hum with old magic, and there is the sharp tang of potent magic.

Were this Hogwarts' Library, these books would all have been locked in the Restricted Section. Every book that he has browsed through contain fascinating morsels of information, and the titbits nestled in them have given him several measures of inspiration in tinkering with what he knows and what else he does not.

There are footsteps then, not at all light, and Harry sighs inwardly at the interruption. If there is such a trend, then it is likely that he will never be able to peruse even a single manuscript in this Library without pause.

He maintains the façade of calmness and conduct when the stranger approaches, slipping in a newly-conjured bookmark made purely from his own magic before closing it. The bookmark will serve as an anchor as he Vanishes it into the ether right next to the Hallows.

"Haraldr Hjortrson?"

The man is a walking tower of shining metal, and none of it is for appearance. The armour is as well worn as it is well polished - there are deep scars gouged out from intent to kill and maim.

"Your search for him has ended. I am he. May I enquire the reasons for your quest…?" He trails off, and the statuesque stranger is quick to provide his name.

"Hallvarðr. I am the Weapons Master of the guards, and I have been tasked with your knowledge of defence." 'Rock defender', a fitting name if it ever was, Harry muses, even as he resigns himself to the 'wishes of the Allfather'.

 _If only their 'defence' consisted of shield charms and nothing more_ , he rues, because the last experience with a sword has left him too-real memories of poison from the King of Serpents running through his very veins.

The news spreads like Fiendfyre, sweeping the entirety of the castle. The chatter that follows is like a second wind - several members of the Royal Courts are under investigations. Hushed voices spread that the personal guard of the Allfather has stormed several houses in the city.

What they retrieve from those houses are a mystery - all wrapped in thick black clothes.

He does not tarry in the halls or the places where people flock to share their half-heard words. Instead, he splits his time between the Royal Library and the company of Frigga, of which both locations are filled with the lack of interest in the subject that sends tongues wagging.

What he does take interest in is the sentencing of the criminals. One is branded publicly as svikari and subsequently sentenced to execution by passage over the seemingly endless waterfalls of the edge of Asgard in a month. Two are scheduled for another hearing, but the wind carries whispers, that they will be banished for inflicting grievous hurt to innocent parties.

Three will walk free, but none escape without feeling haunted and humbled. _Perhaps_ , he muses, _that the Chinese proverb rings true, that 'the heart keeps track of all its deeds._

The permanent silencing charm has turned out well - Harry thinks that he could sprint down the hallways without a sound in these spelled boots. He leaves his magic to trail tendrils along the invisible nooks and crannies of the stone walls - a sixth sense to bolster his memory of the hallways. From time to time slight crumbs of magic he finds, but most of them stale from age and far too decomposed to make any sense of their original purpose.

He stops outside of Valaskjálf – _the Shelf of the Slain_ , truly a morbid name for the hall for a King to rule his Kingdom from – where the great throne seats the Allfather. He has been told that the one who sits on the throne will be able to see all the events that happen on Yggdrasil, but Harry takes that statement with more than a grain of salt.

The walkway to Valaskjálf is strewn with crusts of dried blood, remnants of crushed healing stones, silvers of metals from great weapons. Death lingers here, and yet the people in the hall celebrate with meaningless cheer and feasting.

It holds no interest to him, so he moves past the doors, only to startle a young servant girl walking out one of the side doors. The din of large golden platters crashing to the ground follows after the foot-high jump and startled yelp, and the floor is wet with the remnant of food and drink.

The frightened look on her face comes into being when she realises his station from his attire, and she profusely apologises to him, addressing him as 'Milord'.

He interrupts her flurry of apologies, "Are you hurt?"

Her expression morphs to confusion when he forgoes all of her blubbering, and it reminds him of the blind servitude of House Elves. His glance reveals no injuries, and he takes a step back for a deep breath. She falls to her knees to gather the fallen items, but he wraps a hand around her upper arm to get her to stand.

The wandless magic comes to him easily now, and the repairing charms are a cinch, after decades of smashing and repairing. Her eyes go wide when a wave of his fingers bring the stack of platters to a float in front of her, the unfinished food nestled properly between the stems of the previously smashed goblets.

He walks off in favour of any other action - the levitating platter will stay in place until she has a firm grip on it - only to stop dead in the hallways no less than five minutes later with the sudden realisation that he has just broken what seems to be the equivalence of the Statute of Secrecy that Eir has warned him about.

There is something like a mental shrug; he cannot deny who he is.

The cat is out of the bag, the Asgardian's rumor mill is nothing short of lightning quick, so Harry might as well let it run loose. The Royal Library has had him eager to test out a few magical theories between spellwork and the fabric of the universe… though his quarters are a little too small and a definite no-magic-zone; he has to live somewhere.

It snows sparkling _confetti_ for a week in one particular corridor – an interesting but completely bizarre outcome from one of his spell hybrids – but if the King and Queen suspect him of it, they don't show the slightest hint of it.

Except for Frigga offering the use of one of her rooms in her Hall. The price is affordable - a little of his time to chat with the Queen and her ladies in waiting.

The sneak blow has _nothing_ on his senses – the sensitivities to changes in his surroundings from the business end of hostile spell work has been rightfully honed – but his reflexes are slowed by the slab of steel that passes for a blade that is in his hands.

He turns around, only to feel the rib-crushing blow to the side, sword too slow in meeting the bite of steel. He is winded by the force of the blow and the sheer pain even through the protective armour and spelled tunic, so much so that it's a _good thing_ – because many choice curses come to mind, all in different languages, but none of them are gentle in meaning, and all of them are at least understandable as an insult, with all of the people in the training room fluent in the Immortal Language.

He nearly drops the sword, fingers already numb from countless parries, muscles burning with lactic acid. His ribs will be fine; strengthened by Iðunn's apples and fortified with magic, but his ego is not.

 _He will not be beaten._

He sends a rush of magic to his extremities, wrapping them in tendrils of sheer magic, operating his digits to move – much like a puppeteer.

He stares at Hallvarðr in the eye, "Again."

They continue until his lungs give out on him.

The hallways are straight without the slightest perceptible flaw, and the light of the enclosures are blindingly bright regardless of the time of day. There is a perverse sort of perfection in this place - no way to escape from sight and impossibly speckless.

He maps out the entirety of these dungeons with his magic, nerve ends tingling from the impeccable warding runes of containment and indestructibility. So much faith put into these dungeons that no guards prowl its depths even on the night before his execution date, and watches the man as he teeters on the edge of insanity in the cell, fetters of Asgardian and Dvergar steel clinking noisily as the man tries to dig his way out.

"Skári Ránnulfrson."

The man twitches from the sudden sound, clearly panicking when he sees nothing in front of his prison. Harry steps into the man's line of vision, and observes the manic light of in Skári's eyes when he sees the Independent Advisor: the only other one that now has the power to persuade the Allfather to rescind the sentence passed.

"Please, my Lord. I am innocent. Believe me. Trust me. I have had no hand in such matters. I was set up. Release me. I will owe you a life debt. All of my family will owe you a life debt." the words that come out of the death-row prisoner are forged from desperation; promises and bribes that serve no purpose other than to dig his grave deeper than the bottomless pit that it already is.

"Skári Ránnulfrson," he speaks softly this time, and Skári shuts up this time, "Do you know what your name means in my language? It means 'common seagull', who is son of 'the plundering wolf'. It is not a bad name on all accounts – both are creatures of intelligence, capable of communication and clarity. And yet, they are lacking in concern for other lives in the light of their own and immediate family. Scavengers, if you could put it kindly."

Ránnulfrson pushes forward with information on his binding oath, the one affording protection to the helpless and the frail – _he is well and truly helpless, is he not? –_ and Harry belatedly recalls that there had been two Healers in the adjoining room that quiet morning, and the doors leading out to the hallways left ajar, and not even a silencing charm surrounding the conversation with the King.

 _There are eyes and ears everywhere, Harry! This is insurance, even in our own home._

He casts two dome-shaped Shield charms then and there, making sure to suck out all the air between the two spells. The airtight space goes silent, save for the sounds of breath and Skári's yelp of fear at the sensation of his magic casting.

The rage mounts, and Harry knows it shows in the stiffness of his movements when he steps closer to the transparent barrier,"Such pleas coming from your mouth, which once slung mud at my name. You… dare to utter such words pleading innocents after harming the truly frail and helpless? You killed them - killed their hopes and futures and _souls_."

Ránnulfrson stops breathing at the moment he realises that his misdeeds have been uncovered, "But… there were no _witnesses_."

" _Au contraire_ , Ránnulfrson. You remain as a witness to your crimes. The remnants of destruction remain as witnesses to your crimes. And the dead… tell no lies," the Ring comes into existence on his index finger at the mere thought of it, and he returns it back into the ether.

"You claim innocence. You seek sanctuary from me… the only moment that I will deem you frail and helpless in this body… is the instance where your bones have been ground to pieces by the force of the Endless Falls, a hair's breadth away from Death's grasp. And that is the moment that it is too late to save you."

Ránnulfrson sinks to his knees on the floor.

"I bid you good morrow, Ránnulfrson. The day tomorrow will dawn fair and bright, and you will see an exceptional view that few have seen… and none live to tell the tale," he turns and walks out of the man's line of vision, before letting the Cloak fall into existence around his shoulders.

The morning dawns, clear and cloudless. A crowd has gathered, murmuring as Frigga looks on when the traitor steps into the small boat. He is limp, unresisting as the shackles are secured to the bulwarks of the boat. The boat is loosed of its moorings, and begins to drift to the pull of the boat makes it to the edge, and then the slips from her slight.

It is only at that moment, that his eyes lose their fixation on the Independent Advisor.

He does _feel_ it - a lightning-quick blight in the depths of something that _could be_ his soul - long moments after the boat ferrying the svikari has fallen over the edge. It leaves him weak-kneed for a moment, the burning of his senses.

Asgard is a place that does not see much death - always so quick, never so violent - so he has been made more sensitive to Death and her reapings.

Death has disappeared from the corners of his vision; Skári Ránnulfrson is dead.

It has been a while since she has visited this place.

Sometimes the healers are stationed at the training halls; to nurse the casualties of reckless moves made by soldiers in training. The injuries range from bruised ribs to grisly open wounds, and necessity has made all of them more proficient in their healing of wounds.

There is a crowd forming around the furthest section of the hall. She makes her way to the edges of the crowd, curious to see what has captured the attention of the soldiers. The men shuffle about, making way to let her move to the inner ring of spectators.

There is a fight going on - she cannot believe her eyes - between Hallvarðr and Haraldr. The former has a split lip, and the latter looks as if he is about to fall over in a heap of armour and blood. And despite his breathless condition, he manages to haul the oversized sword over his head to stop the blow that would have split his skull cleanly into two.

She steps forward, ready to put herself in front of the blades if she has to - Haraldr Hjortrson does not belong these ranks of warriors, and he will get killed - but a hand presses onto her shoulder, "Please step back, Healer Eir."

She has been his healer, and knows that his physique can hardly take such blows. Hjortrson's arms are not able to take such force - "But… but he-"

"- has been fighting in these Halls and shown incredible fortitude. Hallvarðr has been appointed his mentor, and we do not question his judgement," is all the guard says, even as Hjortrson takes a vicious blow to the ribs when the Weapons Master reverses the direction of his blade.

Hallvarðr calls for a break, and Harry knows that it is not because that the man is tired. It is because Harry himself is close to collapsing - his vision Is dominated with dancing spots of black and white. Despite the armour and the spells, Hallvarðr's ruthlessness has cut into leather and skin on his left arm. Still, the stabbing pain is better than having his arm lying motionless on the floor.

If he falls to the floor now he really will black out from the pain, and the sword serving as a crutch is the only thing preventing him from doing so. All in all, he has avoided breaking his ribs this time as well; broken ribs would warrant a visit to the Healer's chambers.

Gentle hands take the sword from him, and he dares not look up when long red hair enters the corners of his vision - _she is dead and not in even in this world_ \- and strong thin fingers grasp his forearm.

"Thank you," is all he says, as she leads him to the corner, and her grip tightens painfully on his arm.

"You must understand that I have to do this," Haraldr's words are stilted. It might have to do with the fact that she is prodding the battered bones in his arm, but Eir does not want to understand. She knows that he is different from the rest of the men in Asgard. The men here fight and kill and be killed. He dislikes death and suffering - his people frowned upon violence and wars.

They are forcing him to become something else than what he was.

The latest visitor to the gardens is lost in thought, wandering on the pathways without truly looking at the blooms.

"Have a seat, child," Frigga's voice startles the Healer, and all she can do is to offer a gentle twist of her lips to Eir while motioning to the empty space beside her on the stone bench.

Eir does not speak a word, only rubbing her fingers of the dried flaking blood. The bench is cool, and her thoughts are a flurry of confusion.

 _Tell me, Eir, can one truly belong by standing out?_

It is a few weeks before she sees him again, after relenting to the Queen's request for company at one of the more extravagant feasts of the summer. There are no tables solely to be seated at today, and this arrangement makes it easy for all to mingle and chat.

The Queen has situated herself at one side of the room, and at Frigga's elbow Eir can see the rest of the room. His entrance is conspicuous, firstly because of the colours that he has chosen, and mostly because of the way that he carries himself.

He parts the crowds without doing nothing more than footstep after footstep; intensity and strength like a stalking feline. He catches the eyes of those who glance over at him. And she marvels at the transformation that he has gone through since the day she has laid eyes on him.

He makes his way over to the Queen, and there is an inherent seductiveness in his every movement and word as he kisses Frigga's knuckle, "My Queen."

Eir is next, and she shivers at the softness of his lips and the warmth of his fingers, "Healer Eir."

He captures her attention and everyone else's for the rest of the night, speaking with wit. His voice is deep and his knowledge vast, and he walks away with more than lingering glances from the men and women. More than a handful of women trail after him to the balcony, and it sets tongues wagging when they stay there for the duration of the feast.

 _ **Gold**_ _\- The brilliance of the sun and spiritual light shining from Asgard._

 _ **Red**_ _\- Magical might protective power, spiritual life and vigor, aggressive force._

 _ **Blue**_ _\- The all-encompassing, all penetrating, and omnipresent mystical force of numen, a sign of restless motion, the color of Odin's cloak._

 _ **Green**_ _\- Organic life, a sign of earth and nature, passage between worlds._

 _ **Yellow**_ _\- Earthly power._

 _ **White**_ _\- The total expression of light as the sum of all colors totality, purity, perfection, nobility._

 _ **Silver**_ _\- The disk of the moon, striving for higher knowledge._

 _ **Black**_ _\- New beginning ( as night and winter herald the birth of day and summer), all potential, the root of all things, knowledge of hidden things, concealment, the container of light._

 _ **Author's notes (21/10/13):**_

 **This two-month long hiatus for the rewrite will probably be the last, I hope. I've restructured quite a bit, after several comments about the first chapter being exceptionally hard to digest, and also mainly to allow leeway for future events. TDW is due in a month's time, so hopefully there will be enough room to play with movie-canon as well.**

 **I will** _ **try**_ **to keep on track with my writing and updates (my tumblr's up again too, with the same pen-name), but as it is, I'm stuck picking up loads of slack from up and above me from work.**

 **As always, your reviews are the ones that keep me going.**

 **Cheers,**

 **ikki.**


	4. Chapter 4

**A writer, I would fancy myself, if things could be. But take note, I do not write for others – I write for my own amusement, and my brand of storytelling is my own – I only share these worlds that I dream up.**

 _21\. The war I remember, the first in the world,_

 _When the gods with spears had smitten Gollveig,_

 _And in the hall of Hor had burned her,_

 _Three times burned, and three times born,_

 _Oft and again, yet ever she lives._

 _22\. Heith they named her, who sought their home,_

 _The wide-seeing witch, in magic wise;_

 _Minds she bewitched, that were moved by her magic,_

 _To evil women a joy she was._

 _ **The Poetic Edda, Chapter I, Voluspo**_

 **By Henry Adams Bellows, [1936]**

The mornings are spent in the comfort of a transfigured chair - an overstuffed wingback - enjoying the written works of the Nine Realms. The Royal Library has much to offer, and it is a tragedy that it is locked away from enquiring minds. The other fraction of his time not devoted to the upkeep of Asgard is spent in the tutelage of Frigga or the Healers.

Frigga knows of many things - times of peace and gates wide open. Halls bright and welcoming to beings and creatures of every shape and size. But all these are memories of a little girl, of times past and unlikely to return. Before plots and treacheries wiped the peace and joy with jealousy and suffering, and injected revenge into the gaping maw.

 _"The Prince became a King upon the return from a long journey - father and brothers slain in underhanded fashions."_

From her and the Healers, he learns the art of weaving - weaving seiðr into word. Words set into a tune - a song. Much like intent and wand movements - swishing and flicks. But what he learns is _old_ magic, precursors to curses and blood magic, long before the ultimate classes of Light and Dark. This is magic, raw and unbridled, from the fabric of the universe.

Frigga has her loom, the healers their soothing voices and herbs, but Harry finds out that he can achieve the same with his hands and intent, a skill drawn from his _heritage_.

Other than that, weapons practice is held every few days in the afternoons when either he or Hallvarðr can afford the time, and it makes his fingers shake and muscles twinge far too much afterword to enjoy anything that requires fine motor skills. But he is slowly getting used to hefting the absurd behemoth of steel that Hallvarðr calls a training sword in the basic forms, and even steadily working his way up, faster than his mentor expects, but then again, Asgardians have more than enough time to be skilled in their chosen craft, and he has been living a human's lifespan, where every moment is significantly more precious than that of a near-immortal.

But today is different.

The outdoors calls out to him today, the sun flooding the gardens outside with warmth. It's a pity that he does not have any of his brooms - he would settle for a Cleansweep, even - because swooping in between the mountainous faces of Asgard would be thrilling.

The gardens are relatively private, so he settles on a patch of soft grass to look up into the endless skies, where the clouds wade past a beguiling mix of blue sky and starscape. If he closes his eyes, he can remember the rare days of sunshine in his homeland. The wind combing his hair back with its fingers, pulling the folds of his robes so much so that it feels like _freedom_.

He is jolted out of his meditative state when the not-quite whispers break into his bubble of solitude. The clouds overhead stem the beams from the sun, and the warmth fades.

"There! He doesn't look as scary as the rest said he was! Lifa said he helped her with the broken goblets all those months ago, don't you remember?"

"But he doesn't feast with everyone else in the great halls, so why would he be there to help her? Snorri said that he journeyed from the realm of the dark elves, that's why he's all pale skin and black colouring. And that he eats the hearts of those who cross him, and drinks blood from goblets made from the _skulls_ of his enemies!"

The children start to squabble amongst themselves, the presence of their subject of conversation forgotten. He can't quite help but chuckle mirthlessly at the rumours that surrounds his reputation. Rumours passed on by word of mouth embellished with each telling – all he had eaten and drunk during the assembly all those months ago was an apple and a goblet filled with water.

"Shhhh. Quiet! He'll hear you!"

The warning of the littlest one goes unheeded, and Harry briefly wonders if he had been like that when he was eleven, armed with new friends and getting into all sorts of trouble as a trio. A wave of his hand produces an illusion, and he makes his way silently to their back.

"Now, now, children. You were expressly ordered not to go near him," they turn, faces ready to shoot him an annoyed look, only to squeal and run when they realise that he is the man that their parents talk of when children misbehave. To them, he eats hearts half-raw, and gnaws on the bones of little children.

The expressions of fright and horror are priceless, but he refrains from quoting a few choice lines by the giant from Jack and the Beanstalk. A wandless _Wingardium Leviosa_ catches all of them, and leaves them floating somewhere close to his line of sight.

They flail, and he tries to keep a straight face when the conversation starts with an almost predictable, "Please don't eat us!" and then they stare at him like they really, _really_ believe that he eats hearts and drinks blood.

From the skulls of his enemies, no less.

They are young. _Impressionable_. Their colours denote the nobility in their bloodline, and from the tiny crest that adorns the collar, all are from the House of Odin. They are slated to become warriors, from the cut of the clothes. What they wear is the base; many layers of leathers and metal are yet to be added, year after year and challenge after challenge.

It will not do to contradict their upbringing.

 _Past childhood fascinations with the fantastical conjurations_

 _warping into ugly feelings of deceit and trickery under the heavy_

 _layers of leather, metal, blood and… souls_

They plead their case of curiosity, so he listens as the story turns to the Lifa that they had quarrelled over earlier. He pretends to think, and then dismisses them with infinite care to show carelessness in his of them dismissal. They scramble off, glad that the _scary_ sorcerer has not yet worked up an appetite for hearts, livers or blood.

He watches them leave, these future warriors. They will learn to not associate themselves with the staff of the kitchens, much less male practitioners of seiðr. They will learn to take rumour in their stride, conduct witch hunts of their own.

Harry has a hold over Death, but he cannot prevent the events leading to it. He cannot prevent rumours and suspicions and the secret inner workings of the minds of Asgardians. Not yet, not at the moment, that is. He wields the façades of power and mystery, but he needs it to solidify before he can change the ancient mind-sets of Asgard.

In the dead of the night, two hours is all it takes - the kitchens have amassed enough ruined dining utensils in the hopes of his repeat performance instead of sending it to the smithies to be melted and recast. The bulk of the spells that he casts are repairing and strengthening charms.

He rarely exchanges words between himself and the staff of the kitchens, but he does get hot food sent up to him by Lifa - fair repayment for his _monthly chores_ and _petty tricks_ \- in rooms far away from the dining halls.

He still sees the boys from time to time, but they are adorned with the beginnings of young warriors, and have long since stopped in their attempts of trying to tail him.

The chill in the air is unmistakable. It has been present for some time now, and the morning frost thickens with each day. There is the sense of anticipation and thrill that he catches, though he admits that he has not been catching up with the going-ons that the rest of Asgard has been up to. His attentions have been drawn to a certain celestial body, the third one revolving around a certain star. It is so different from the one in his memory.

"Winter Solstice," Eir tells him, and continues to elaborate, amusement colouring her voice when she realises that he doesn't even have the barest beginnings of an idea of what goes on during the Solstice. But he does, the more she speaks of it – their Sunwheels are the Christmas wreaths in his memory, and actual logs carved with runic wishes are the yule log cakes in his time.

This year's celebration is most anticipated, or so she says, because the weather seems to be cold enough for snowfall.

The women are a bit sceptical when he offers his help in furnishing the entire hall, but he manages to persuade them to take a little break and supervise his work. There are so many parallel similarities between the two cultures, and when he is done, the women are speechless.

They are beautiful, these things that Haraldr has created with his hands.

The lights drift along invisible currents, wavering like fireflies. Enchanted snow drifts from the ceiling - it seems familiar - and they disappear without a trace before they reach the floor. She catches one in her palm, and they carry just a hint of the cold of real ice.

Boughs upon boughs of holly and sunwheels line the side of the Great Hall, rich in their colours, as though freshly picked from the forest itself. Haraldr Hjortrson comes from a beautiful world, it seems. It is no wonder that he seems so sad sometimes, lost in his mid.

Still, Frigga notices his frown, like he has not quite captured his memories. The rest of them are speechless for having doubted him, and his smile is forgiving. There is a trickster behind the forbidding visage of the Independent Advisor it seems, because the man derives much amusement from watching the people with their gaze stuck to the ceiling, walking into tables and benches and each other.

He stands still, but when Harry moves closer, he starts. Skittish, like most animals on first contact with him. But all of them step closer to him once they realise that he is not there for them - not in _that way_. A black stallion, yet young, but very powerful.

"He is mine?"

The stable hand jumps, "Yes. A fine stallion as a gift from the twelve houses. Do be careful, Milord, he is yet to be trained properly - nearly kicked off the door when they brought him in, sir."

"His name?"

"Eylir, sir."

 _Fighter of all,_ it means. A well given name, because they hope that Eylir will be temperamental enough to throw him off and trample him underfoot. He coaxes Eylir closer with an apple, and looks at Eylir in the eye.

 _ **'Hello, Eylir.'**_

The young male calms, and when he rides Eylir out the morning after, there are disbelieving stares that follow after him.

The horseshoes strike the glassy sheen of the bridge, and Harry places a firm hand on the neck of his horse to calm him. It is disconcerting for Eylir - the light flaring under his feet - but the young stallion makes it all the way to the end of the bridge.

The voice is resonant, even in the empty space, "Haraldr Hjortrson."

"Gatekeeper," he replies in acknowledgement, before falling silent. He perches on the edge of the bridge, looking down into the endless depths. He can feel the revulsion crawling up his legs, sticking in his calves like a deep seated ache. The memory of falling is still fresh.

"What _do_ you see, Heimdall?"

"A single dew drop falling from a blade of grass a thousand worlds away. The Dvergar forges in a shower of light and heat as a hammer strikes metal. I see all, Haraldr Hjortrson."

His head turns to watch the Gatekeeper, making sure that Death is in the corner of his vision, "Are we alone on the Bifröst?"

"Yes." Without hesitation whatsoever.

Harry leaves, walking to where Eylir awaits.

She turns her gaze to the sable-haired man reading silently in front of her. His lips mouth the passages that he reads through, a reminder that he is not Æsir by birth. There are many whispers about Haraldr Hjortrson - how he can instil fear into the hearts of men simply by just looking at them and telling them odd sentences. How he now wields weapons with a startling proficiency - proficiency that he has never had prior to his arrival from Asgard.

She has never seen those sides of him before - he is gentle with rare streaks of mischief - but she knows that he is a broken person, not unlike a handful of men who return from war scarred, those who throw themselves into work just to stop their thoughts from wandering into more unpleasant memories. His hands are in constant motion – when they are not occupied in the weaving of seiðr or the reading of books, his fingers tap a staccato beat along his leg. The young man doesn't smile at all, only a mere twist of his lips in reaction to a situation that appears to be funny to him.

But sometimes, she sees a shadow of the young man in front of her, when he asks questions, or recreates astonishing weaves of seiðr from his world. She will accommodate him in this aspect as far as she can, for his services and sacrifices rendered to the kingdom, by listening to his recounts and questions and answering them as best as she can. She doesn't know of any other way to save this lost soul, because he seems so distant even when he is sitting right in front of him.

All she can offer is her company.

For one, he misses Firewhiskey… and a good steak.

Not forgetting fish and chips, or the delicious treacle tarts, and not forgetting… the chocolate phoenix cakes. He just has to figure out the methodology of making them, right after he can ensure the _procurement or substitution_ of the ingredients.

They have recently worked out a system, the two of them – Death and he.

It's a cross between sign language and visual communications; she uses both to reply his questions, and he uses the latter when he is in the company of others and prefers not to be thought of as crazy. She doesn't really understand the concept of 'letters' or 'words', and more often than not she answers his questions with misleading gestures.

It's not a perfect system, especially when it's a series of trial-and-error attempts to communicate with a being whose only interaction with living beings is the instance where She takes souls and life away. Their mind-link is a flimsy strand of spider's silk – strong yet weak – but it's the best that they can do, because any more and he risks his psyche being splintered across every square meter where life exists, in every speck of the universe.

But he can sense the foreboding in the tenuous connections with Her, and from what he little he can glean, war rumbles at the very core of the World Tree. It lies over Asgard like an avalanche waiting for the slightest trigger, but it won't come just yet. There is still time.

And with war, the presence of Death is inevitable.

She watches as he slides his finger across the spine of the book, and sends it into spiralling off the table. The book does not hit the floor; it simply vanishes into thin air. His fingers rub across his tired brow, and Haraldr seems at a loss for words at his lack of ability to find what he is looking for.

He is more than proficient in layering the weaves now, but it seems that whatever he wants is out of his knowledge.

"What ails your thoughts, Haraldr?"

He literally jumps at her voice, and Frigga watches as he recovers admirably to stand up and bow customarily, "Nothing of great worry, my Queen. Merely an excess of thoughts that have no outlet by which to exhaust themselves," she thinks that he could redirect even a raging river with words alone, let alone a conversation, "the court session is to be started soon?"

The way to the Hall of the Slain is a long one - but there are shortcuts through the servant's quarters. He makes good time, but arrives far too late; the floor is already stained with congealing blood and ash, littered with spears, and amongst what is left of the tattered clothing not stained by the copious amount of blood, are the colours characteristic of the Vanir.

He is, however, just in time to see the mangled body raise itself onto its knees, only to be pierced once again by spears, and then set on fire. The fire burns longer and brighter than any dead body should, and then all his muscles freeze when from the ashes, when a figure rises from it.

He arrives far too late; A woman, he realises, not unlike those old stories where a wise sorceress would rise from underneath the skin of beasts or old hags.

 _The magic swirls, suffocating._

Then she foretells of the war that Harry has been dreading for countless weeks. It falls upon them, swiftly.

There is nothing out of place - but that is the touch of a master assassin.

The doors to his rooms are no longer a hairsbreadth open; someone has been into his rooms unannounced, and there is the possibility that they are still inside. Vanaheim and its allied Realms are not to be belittled - their veiled executioners have already brought down many prominent figures of late.

He slips threads of seiðr through the gaps of the door, searching for a heartbeat. The threads snare his prey as soon as he finds his assassin, and he Apparates in a crouching position onto the bed, right behind with a blade pressed to where the neck should be.

There is a gasp, and Harry immediately releases the tension from his knife-arm - not an assassin. Eir turns around in his arms to look at him with widened eyes and fingers trailing the thin line of blood at her neck, and Harry steps back.

"Healer Eir. I apologize."

His voice slips a shiver down her back, and Eir sees the haunted look in Haraldr's eyes even in the dim light. He has not been sleeping well, ever since Heith's prophecies of calamity befalling Asgard. She had only meant to… comfort him.

His eyes slip downward from her face, and she feels her face heat up and her courage falter when he finally realizes her attire.

Nothing at all.

 _It is not the first or the last that she will do this for a man. But it is the first encounter where her heart is involved. There is wonder in his eyes as he regards her, and she ponders if he has ever been with another woman if he is looking at her like that._

 _So she takes the opportunity unawares, and closes the distance between them._

 _And just like all her encounters with him, she is woefully out of her depth. He sips air from her lips, leaving her breathless. There are trails of heat when he traces her body with lips and fingers, and when the rounds are over, he has drawn enough sound from her throat to make it raw and achy. There is blood underneath her fingernails, left behind by the indescribable need to curl her fingers and toes. His hisses of pain and pleasure still ring in her ears._

 _He has removed her bones and replaced it with liquid satiety, and she falls asleep with him and his deep voice half-choked on a garbled name._

 _She wakes up alone to the light of the half-dawn and the joyless bellow of war horns - Asgard's descent into war has been called every man to the battlefront, and the only reminder of her claim is the lines of blood on the sheets and the blood under the crescent of her nails._

Eir watches his form slumped over the table, and knows not to wake him, unless she would like a blade drawing blood at her neck. Haraldr Hjortrson has spent countless days working himself into a frayed mess; he has been at nearly every battlefront, and the force of his presence is evident in the low death tolls of either side. Bifröst travel and heavy seiðr use make his exhaustion a palpable thing, and her eyes trace his features and lank hair. The fabric of his clothes is swathed in several layers of blood, and the leather is flaking dull red crusts onto the floor.

Between an eye blink, he is already up, woken up by no sound that she can hear. And in the time that it takes for her to gasp, he has disappeared from her sight.

The Cloak settles around his shoulders, and the weight of it is familiar. There have been ten simultaneous deaths around Asgard, and more are falling.

Asgard has been breached.

The palace is in full alarm, and yet it is too late - the intruders have been dealt with. Heimdall knows that Haraldr Hjortrson has been nothing but remarkable in the matters of the court and in the training halls, but the man is impossibility on the battlefield.

The man picks at the blood from his clothes - the slashes in his clothes are the sole lingering evidence of deep slashes, but no wound is in sight - and looks up to regard Heimdall in the eye, "You have questions, Gatekeeper."

"What were your methods of traversing such great distances?"

Hjortrson eyes him for all of two seconds before slowly blinking, "It seems that Vanaheim has discovered how to use the Heart of their Realm for inter-Realm travel. Something like the Bifröst - though I suspect that the Asbrú is not powered by Asgard itself."

It still does not answer his question, and Heimdall watches Hjortrson turns away from him. The man's face does not show the barest change in expression as Heimdall watches from another angle, "I… followed the energy traces from the portals, and subdued them."

The last words are swallowed by the silence, and there is nothing but the soft breathing of the incapacitated men at their feet while they wait for the Allfather and his entourage of advisors.

Frigga forces herself to loosen fingers from her dress - the fabric is far too delicate for her anxiety, "What do you see, Heimdall?"

The gatekeeper's eyes are lost in his vision, "Njörðr has granted his children Freyr and Freyja permission to act as messengers of peace. Hœnir and Mímir will remain with the Vanir."

It will be a joy to see her sister and brother once again, but the circumstances are far from ideal - Freyr and Freyja are war hostages.

The man truly is a shadow - silent and hard to notice - and has slipped away the moment Freyr and his sister have their feet firmly on the ground after travel by Bifröst. There is a parade that reeks of the Æsir 's victory, even though it has merely been a truce to stop the bloodshed.

Under the table, Freyja's hand tightens around his fingers, as the toasts and cheers become nearly unbearable. Across the table, he watches as his elder sister maintains her composure. He is happy to see Frigga, though her countenance is grim at the accounts of bloodshed and glory by the masses in the hall; though she has lived in Asgard, Vanaheim will always be her home Realm.

Haraldr Hjortrson appears again at his elbow, out of nowhere amidst the drunken crowd, "Please come with me."

Freyja touches his hand, knowing that Freyr is close to violence. Her brother has been stretched to the point where he will break something or _someone_ , and Hjortrson may just be the one. The man does not seem like the wretched killer that the Vanir warriors swear he is - not with his emerald eyes swimming in a face full of mournfulness.

She takes his offered hand, and her brother follows on the other side of her. The walk is long and the company is silent. His hand is chill against hers, while her brother's fingers are a searing sensation against her palm.

The door opens, and Frigga gets to her feet.

"My Queen," Haraldr's voice is low and hushed; quickly smothered by the rustle of cloth and shuffle of feet as her siblings rush to greet her. It has been a long while - Freyr now towers well over her, and Freyja has a river of gold tresses falling down her back.

She stays there, wrapped in a long embrace, and thinks that there is still the smell of Vanaheim's earth after the spring rain lingering on their clothes.

It really has been a long while.

"What… will happen to her?"

Harry looks up to regard Freyr, who is looking at his sisters as they talk quietly, "Lady Freyja will remain with the Queen here in Fensalir. The Queen holds supreme authority in her Hall, second to no one else. As for you, Lord Freyr, you will have the choice of staying here in the Palace and anywhere else in Asgard, though you will be under scrutiny as the King sees fit."

"Then I am relieved."

The caves have the same signature workmanship as the dungeons, uniform in its construction, ceiling parallel to floor, walls perfectly perpendicular to the ground. And all the surfaces practically shimmer with runes ensorcelled against collapse.

He mutely accepts the blindfold before they guide him into the sprawling maze of twists and turns, his guards none the wiser to his mapping out of the tunnels with his magic.

His guards lead the way down, far away from the ' _deadly'_ orange sunlight. It turns them into stone, and Harry feels the beginnings of amusement – maybe they are the inspiration for garden gnomes, despite their comparable stature to his own. The walk continues for nearly ten thousand steps when his escorts start to slow.

They reach the end of the tunnel, the blindfold comes off, and then he sees it. The light from countless windows of the massive structure spill out to illuminate an impossibly large cavern, as well as a mind boggling number of bridges. It almost seems like a spider's web over an abyss, and in the center is a mutant of a spider with a million eyes.

 _Harkalegasta_ , the ' _fiercest_ ' citadel.

They take the largest bridge, the only one crafted of stone, and lead him far below the citadel, passing many curious eyes and gabbing tongues before reaching a set of massive doors. The doors that he faces are massive, and light peeks out from the minute spaces, blinding bright against the white marble floors.

Ivaldi has watched the comings and goings of many, witnessed many times as the spell-craft of his people metamorphosed simple rocks into shining jewels. He has unearthed precious metals with his own handcrafted tools, and felt solid rock tremble under his feet as caverns collapsed upon themselves. He no longer sees after a lifetime of sights and sounds, but that does not mean that he is _insensate._ It merely means that he is old, pains and aching joints and memory and regret.

With the loss of his sight, came the keenness of his hearing, and the sensitivity of his skin, calluses and all.

He _feels_ the murmur of the Asbrú as it cuts through a finger's width of dirt, and feels the echo of seiðr as the tendrils investigate down the tunnels that lead to the Dvergar citadel that he was born in. Few surface dwellers make it far into the depths of the Dwarven Realm, Ivaldi muses, and none have had the distinction of half a dozen of the highly skilled soldiers of Harkalegasta as escorts.

Ivaldi does not let the apprehension cloud his concentration – steady fingers lower slender bars of his latest alloy into the mould. The heat from the forge takes hold, and the hiss of the metal slowly turning molten is music to his ears.

His esteemed unexpected guest comes to a stop before his doors, and Ivaldi steps thirty paces from the forge before nudging the doors open a crack for his voice to carry through, "Who is it, who dares disturb my work?"

There is a pause, before the unknown stranger replies, "I ask for forgiveness in the interruption of your labours. I came at the commendations of my Queen, the Lady Frigga, who declared that the works of Ivaldi are treasures beyond any measure."

They are pretty words, well-rehearsed, even. But there are no lies that Ivaldi can detect, and the words of the Lady Frigga carry much weight. He remembers her from his youth - divine smiles and genteel manners.

"So be it," and he pushes the door wider to allow his… customer in. The heat from the forge rushes out, and there is a dark undertone of amusement when he hears the man hiss in surprise. The searing heat penetrates even insulated layers of armour, and Ivaldi waits or the man to recover his sight from the blazing light of the forge.

His eyes take a moment to adjust to the light from the blazing forge, and when his vision clears somewhat, he sees Ivaldi, a sight made rare in Asgard by Iðunn's apples – hunched back, wrinkled skin and thinning hair. And yet, the fabled master craftsman is hardly diminished by his seemingly advanced age, and from under the soot-dusted fabric are strong arms.

"My question has not yet been answered."

"I am Haraldr Hjortrson. I am but a simple aide."

The wizened man snorts, "A simple aide indeed. One who bears the backing of the Allfather and his bride. A man who claims the birth right of the Stag. Which one of the Five do you hail from, Dáinn, Dvalinn, Duneyrr, Duraþrór or Eikþyrnir?"

Harry shakes his head, belatedly realizing that Ivaldi cannot see his movement, "I merely uphold my oaths to the King. Thusly, a simple task. As for your last question, I have no answer."

"Well answered. My next questions will not be so easily deflected, Hjortrson. I shall not be the one to deny the request of the beloved lady of Asgard ."

The aged craftsman beckons him to an adjoining chamber, seemingly deathly cold in contrast to the forge, and Harry realises one thing – Ivaldi is nearly blind; milky cataracts threatening to swallow his pupils.

There are brief undertones of _realization_ , when Ivaldi turns to look at the self-proclaimed _simple_ aide of Odin Allfather with his sightless eyes. Haraldr Hjortrson realizes the lack of sight that Ivaldi has been afflicted with, and Ivaldi feels the presence of the man's companion.

And somehow, he doesn't feel any fear. Not anymore. Not when it is so close.

He watches with his mind's eye, before regarding Hjortrson, "Do you wish to gaze into my eyes for much longer like a swain stricken with heartsickness, or shall we move on to the business of my expertise?"

The man sputters, and Ivaldi presses forward, eager to pursue business. There is little that challenges him of late – blade-craft and trinkets made from his hands are without a doubt exquisite, but there is little variation to be had in either the sharpness of edges made to slice through hard rock or the fineness of spun silver in the likeness of spider threads – the Lady Frigga has sent Hjortrson, so Ivaldi will gladly relish the task.

Hjortrson speaks, and Ivaldi listens, his attention drawn away from their ghost of a spectator.

And as he expects, the task is nigh impossible. A sturdy structure – indestructible, if possible – to hold transient _things_ and preserve them as they are. He turns it over in his head, and looks at it in his mind's eye from inside out, only to be startled back into reality when Hjortrson touches his hand.

His hand is guided palm up, fingers and thumb folded to press together. Something a little denser than air is dripped into the shallow pit of his hand, and the liquid maintains its silky quality as his finger passes through it. It is worn and old like the pages of a well-loved book, kept preserved.

Ivaldi gets his rush of inspiration – amalgamates to be concocted and tested, with whole runes to be designed and crafted into existence. He is reluctant to part with his hive of thoughts when the subject matter of compensation comes up – there is little that one's heart will desire when one has had more than his share of turning the fates. He refuses the gift of vision, for he is content to live in his perceived world – his memories will stay bright and untainted without his sight.

And thus begins the bartering process, for Ivaldi has no short of riches and boons from the wealthy and the wise.

"So… you do not want any service that I can offer?"

"Nothing that you can conjure with your weaving."

It takes a little while, but Hjortrson offers up something that Ivaldi accepts. It is raw like rock freshly mined, and it is a wondrous and impossible thing - boiling magma trapped in rock. It is the simplest but most heartfelt of all, because it has been made with much dedication and experimentation, and Ivaldi can taste the sheer potential in the hard drink that burns sweetly down his throat and lingers in his veins.

It is from one craftsman to another – Hjortrson will refine the drink in time, and at that moment, Ivaldi will be proud to declare that he has had a part in the perfection called Firewhisky.

The alloy hums smoothly under the caress of his fingers, and Ivaldi turns up the corners of his mouth. It is a fifth-generation alloy since Haraldr's commission, and the most malleable yet. And with the repeated tempers with star-flame and ice-melt, it will be the strongest yet.

Some days he hears the murmurs, and for the most of those days, he memorizes nearly enough to hum along with it. Today is mercifully silent – Hjortrson has come on Ivaldi's request – and the man's admission into the forge brings with him the lingering traces of tanned leather and whispers of seiðr.

"You have been busy, it seems. Has Njörðrson been teaching you the thrills of the hunt?"

The man chuckles, "Freyr's love for it is infectious. I fear that my Queen has nearly had quite enough of the gifts of venison, though Lady Freyja is happy with the furs that her brother provides for her."

There is a hint of anticipation in Hjortrson's voice; Ivaldi has been the one who has sent for the man.

Ivaldi gestures to the objects on the table that he knows to be there, "This is the archetype, and here is the amalgamate block for the final casting. "

Hjortrson takes care not to muffle his footsteps, and the heavy footfalls let Ivaldi know that the man has stopped a good distance away from the complicated mass of structured runes, "I am certain that it is not the norm to have foreign observers to encroach on an artisan's work, Master Ivaldi."

"If I had stuck with tradition, you would have no one to work on this commission of yours, and you know that, Haraldr Hjortrson," _and besides, Hjortrson's companion has already been involved in his crafts, brushing fingers against the alloys and runes._

The man chuckles, and leaves after confirming that Ivaldi's latest artefact is to the specifications, and finally, _finally,_ his limbs get to work in inspired motion.

There is creation to be made by his hands, and every single piece will be made to perfection and beyond, as long as he can.

The murmur begins anew, louder, even, now that he has put down his tools. The metal construct will have to brave the star-fire for at least the turns of three seasons, all the way till the coldest ice-melt can be harvested from the furthest reaches of the landscape that is Niðavellir.

That is entirely too much time to sit around and do nothing at all - for he has turned down other commissions in order to work on this last one - and Ivaldi fears that his mind will be lost by the time the metal has been properly tempered in the star-furnace. He opens his mind to the mesmerizing quality of the monophony, listening to the entity that has not followed Haraldr as he departed from the citadel. His hands fall upon the last of the wondrous alloy that has been left over from the final forging - too little to be an adequate sword, and far too precious to be wasted as a set of pretty trinkets.

Not to mention that there would be no happy end for those unfortunate enough to be presented with a ring or necklace made from the metal; for the metal holds and binds energies like no other. The paean-like verse lends inspiration to Ivaldi, and he decides upon daggers. There is enough of the metal to form two decent daggers, but the material is heavy to the extent that it is unwieldy in battle.

Perhaps four tiny throwing daggers, enough to conceal in the palm of one hand, he thinks, and Ivaldi sets to work dreaming up the runes and design that would make such a set of weapons legendary.

Eylir follows his subtle directions well, more silent than he could ever be in the undergrowth. Slowly and steadily forward… until he sees his quarry, browsing through the undergrowth.

 _The string draws taut – deep breath in, and then half let out through the mouth – and then the near-silent twang of the string, the passage of the arrow through the air, straight through the ribs into the chest cavity… the rustle of the undergrowth as the animal falls over._

He jumps off the horse, Death in the corner of his vision. He has not quite killed the doe in one shot, and she feebly struggles. He kneels down at her back, away from the kicking legs, pushing down at the shoulder and neck, and pulses a wave of magic through. He takes the pain and awareness away, and whispers soft apologies as he snaps the fragile vertebrae.

The soul goes to Death, and he watches as She disappears back into the forest. His horse Eylir waits patiently as he secures the carcass to him, and he rewards him with some of the forest fruit, and when they return to the stables, Eylir has his favourite treat of bread and carrots.

The carcass he hefts to the outside of the kitchens, where he begins the systematic gutting and slicing of the flesh. The meat goes to the kitchens, where they jest with him, before they set him loose on the latest mound of bent cutleries and shattered goblets. They are insistent on recompensing him, and he decides on some more grain this time – he never tires in the experimentations and reinventions of the culinary delights of his past.

The Firewhisky is coming along well; Ivaldi is a master brewer in his own right. It leaves him time to… experiment. Not forgetting fish and chips, or the delicious treacle tarts, and not forgetting… the chocolate phoenix cakes. He just has to figure out the methodology of making them, right after he can find his ingredients.

The hide he brings to the tanneries, the very last piece of raw hide that he will need for a very long time. He has already tried and tested the optimum integration of spell casting and seiðr weaving on countless samples of hide, and now has all he needs to make a complete set of armour.

A set of armour more than fit for fighting an entire congregation of Hungarian Horntails, but he knows not where and what the enemies are this time.

The wrapped bundle lies upon the table, and Harry tears his eyes away from it to concentrate on the task at hand.

The quadruple daggers are hot to the touch, despite the fact that he has been handling them for the better part of the day. Maybe this is the power of the heart of a dying star, he muses, and a testament to the sheer mastery of the Dvergar over their craft.

He hefts the daggers once more; blades stained with his own blood, and sends them flying towards the makeshift targets.

Dead center in the bull's-eye for the hundredth time, out of one hundred times.

A few claps sound out, "One of the more challenging works that I have done, Haraldr Hjortrson. I would not have made them for anyone else."

"I am glad to receive the honour that you bestow upon me, Master Ivaldi. Will you consider my offers of recompense?"

The dwarf craftsman is already fully blind from the fires of the forge, and yet Ivaldi shakes his head, "I refuse your offer of restoring my sight, Hjortrson. There is nothing in my forge that I do not know my way around, and my eyes afford me no distraction from light and darkness." _And thusly I do not see the bloodshed that stains my masterpieces,_ is the implied and unspoken.

The mood lightens when Ivaldi grins, "I believe that my reward is due now."

Harry laughs at the man's unshakable determination, and then the casks appear in the corner that the master smith himself has cleared a space for with unerring precision - there are fourscore casks for every decade that Ivaldi has worked.

 _"I will see you again, soon."_

 _"I will come when you send word, then, Master Ivaldi."_

 _"I will not send word. You will know."_

 _"What do you mea-"_

 _"You will know."_

 _ **Author's notes (25/10/13):**_

 **More mythology canon to pave the foundation and to plug the loopholes for the future, and I finally put some of the backstory into actual words instead of thinking it to myself. Eir's story is something that has existed (in my head) for a long time, but I'm afraid that fleshing it out even more at this point will backfire - it calls for more world-building than I am prepared for at this point. The following chapters will more or less retain their original content.**

 **Also, as I have no beta or proofreaders, do let me know if I have errors in my writing (FFnet's grammar check scares me, and reminds me of my poor grasp of the language). It kills me inside to know that I've left a word horribly misspelled for all the world to see, sometimes.**

 **As always, your words are the ones that keep mine going.**

 **Cheers,**

 **ikki.**

 ***Kudos to Swallow-Tailed Kite for spotting errors.**


	5. Interlude 1

**Thirteen Steps into the Heart of Darkness**

 **A writer, I would fancy myself, if things could be. But take note, I do not write for others – I write for my own amusement, and my brand of storytelling is my own – I only share these worlds that I dream up.**

 **There is a line between each and every thing, intangible or not.**

 **Some are imperceptible, others are vast.**

 **We can go back and forth; it is only our perceptions that are altered forever.**

 **ONE**

She finds him without difficulty even in the crowds - it feels as though the shape of him has been burnt into her eyes - and feels her heart flutter at the sight of him. There has been no conclusion yet to the night spent together with Haraldr, with him called to war with Vanaheim and herself battling the death of Asgardian soldiers. He has been appointed as temporary keeper to the latest additions to the Court - the Lord Freyr and the Lady Freyja - and is occupied with keeping the Queen's siblings in a state of contentment.

There is a pang of misdirected ill-will toward the fair Freyja, as Haraldr cups an elbow to lead her around the halls. Freyr follows, and there is a fleeting thought that Eir herself would have made the group of three into a well-rounded group of four, but she has been saddled with her own charge for tonight.

Heith, who has risen from the ashes of a man before the war with Vanaheim. All her sister Healers have called Heith - in their unaltered words - 'a witch of the darkest order' after spending a day with the woman, but Eir does not see the reason for the label. The woman is beautiful, and her words are neither spiteful nor bitter.

"You think you've found someone you could love. _Someone_ you would love," the husky voice startles Eir, and she turns to look at Heith. Grey eyes glitter, and Eir has the feeling that the woman is mocking her.

Heith only laughs, attracting the glances of the others around, but her following words are soft, "You hope that he will return these affections of yours, sweetling. But I wonder, little flame… does he know of your correspondence with the King? And of all the women that the Allfather could have chosen, did you know why he chose you? There is pain in Hjortrson's eyes when he looks at you, but you are still the flame to his moth. Did you truly not _wonder_?"

Eir's lungs seize at the whisper-soft words, and Heith reveals a slow, fanged smirk. She raises her voice, "Healer Eir, I think that I have had enough of the festivities. Shall we adjourn for tonight?"

Heith… _truly is a witch._

But the woman speaks of unspoken truths from the heart, and seems to have many more answers to unasked questions, so she follows.

 **TWO**

There are words that ring in her head.

' _Men like him are rare. The Queen looks upon him with favour, and he is free to enter her Halls.. He is the unseen hand of the King, and Asgard's shield. He weaves seiðr, and wields weapons - feminine like a woman, and no less than a warrior of Asgard's finest.'_

They stay in her head, those words.

' _A man like him… will not court a woman out of fear that his enemies will take her away from him._ _But you… you have an advantage, dearest. I have seen the moments that you have not caught - you catch his gaze when you are looking elsewhere.'_

Heith had led her in the gardens where Haraldr frequented,paralyzed her with seiðr and cloaked her in the shadows of the garden. With a flip of golden hair that had then bled red, she walked toward the flowers while Eir stayed in shadow. And it was true. The same red of her hair caught Haraldr's gaze, and from her vantage point, saw the brief stutter of his movements.

Heith turns to show her face to the Grand Advisor, and Eir sees the shutter over his handsome visage, "Lady Heith, it is a surprise to see you here without your keeper."

"Healer Eir had something to attend to, and bade me to stay in these gardens for a little moment, Lord Hjortrson."

There is a frown that mars his face, "I will escort you to your quarters then, Lady Heith," and Eir hopes that it is concern for her rather than the issue of her leaving Heith unattended.

Heith leans into Haraldr's arm, and when the witch sends a backward backward smile at her, barbs of jealousy sink into her heart. Her bindings wear off soon enough, but Eir stays there for a while longer.

 **THREE**

Heith has a voice that could coax even the angriest bilgesnipe into slumber, and wit that could charm the scales off a snake. Her knowledge of the Realms are intricate, her patience rivals Mimir, who now resides in Vanaheim. And it is her instinct for survival that has stayed the hand of the Allfather.

She is tracing nonsensical patterns on the leather of his bracer, and Harry fights the urge to fidget. It would give away the fact that he knows that she is weaving seiðr into his armour.

"You… are an _exceptional_ man, Advisor Hjortrson. It turns out that the rumors from the battlefield were not rumors at all."

Harry hates it - these games that she plays for a living. Her words are always seemingly innocuous, only to be exposed to be as Machiavellian as possible when there is someone dead or dying. He knows not to fall into her traps, but there is only so much that he can do to stop _others_ from falling into her trap. He thanks her in noncommittal tones, and brushes away her probing questions.

"And you are the _exception_ to all women, Heith," are all the words that he leaves her with at the door to her chambers, before shutting the grand doors behind her and doubling the guards at her door.

He burns the leather brace that she had been fingering all the way to her chambers, and rips the rest of the seiðr from the leather with savage slashes of his fingers.

 **FOUR**

Freyja misses Vanaheim. It is the land where she has seen the seasons pass, and the pace here is much too fast for her liking. Vanaheim is comfort, and Asgard is clutter. A hundred new faces every time, and she cannot even tell if they are from one noble House or another. She does have her crutches - her twin Freyr, and her elder sister Frigga - which is more than what she can ask for.

There is another. Her sister Frigga- the Queen of Asgard, now - has vouched for him. The dark shadow of a man that Freyja has come to see as another brother. His horse Eylir is well cared for by his own hand, and the stallion is a gentle giant to her - all matters that speak upon the character of such a master.

"Thank you, Bróðir."

And when the endearment instead of his name slips from her lips, it is Haraldr who mirrors her wide eyes with everlasting green before laughing that laugh of his, "I am honoured, Systir."

 **FIVE**

Eylir's ears flicker uneasily in the calmness of the woods, but Harry gives the stallion credit for not faltering even with the stench of blood in the air. He finds Freyr soon enough, blonde locks reflecting the dappled sunlight through the trees. His hands though, are coated with the sheen of rubies, and they make quick work in gutting the deer.

"The Lady Eir has been in these forests of late," are the first words that Freyr uses to greet Harry, "and I am beginning to feel slighted when her face falls at the sight of only me, Brother."

"I apologize for that, Freyr. But you have my gratitude for keeping my whereabouts unknown," is all he can say. Harry's presence in the palace is proof that Haraldr Hjortrson is still attending to his duties on Asgard diligently, though most of the populace are not aware of what he does, exactly.

"Did you find what you were looking for?" Freyr probes his… excursions to the different parts of Yggdrasil with gentle wording, and Harry shakes his head.

"No. I have more things to consider now," he catches the end tail of his unconscious sigh, and gives his neck a quick twist to loosen the vertebrae up.

Freyr grins, "Shall we take your mind off these matters then, brother? I propose a challenge."

 **SIX**

The thrill of the hunt is never present on every single day that Asgard offers, and most days are well-spent in work and leisure. His horse has been especially helpful in trimming back the undergrowth from the clearing where his house has been built, and Freyja loves the abundant sun that the clearing brings to her flower patch that she has sown on previous visits.

It is a far cry from his former luxuries in Vanaheim, but his upbringing has never left out the necessities of life. Haraldr had provided what Freyr had not - knowledge of Asgard's forest, of which trees to yield the best lumber, necessities, and of course, an outlet to voice his thoughts and vent his frustrations.

His blood has been stirring for the better part of the week, and he credits Haraldr in his awareness of the surroundings when Freyr drops from the branches with a yell and a sword in his hand. The swords that they use are not deadly, but they _are_ hard and sharpened as best as they can, being hewn out of ironwood.

And at the end of the day, they down mug after mug of Firewhiskey. Freyr is not sure what he says to Haraldr, and he is not sure if his ears deceive him.

" _Love? I have loved the same woman a hundred thousand and one times."_

 _The man looks away from the firelight with a grim chuckle, and there is nothing but shadow as the voice continues._

" _And she has died in my arms a hundred thousand and one times."_

 **SEVEN**

He feels the change in her demeanor, and before he can conceive a reason to leave her Halls she starts the conversation he has been dreading. They have all been in on this, the trio of siblings, and she knows that he cannot brush her off as easily as the twins.

"She cares for you, Haraldr. Deeply."

The slump in his posture coaxes a giggle from her, and Harry looks to the side, where there is nothing but blue skies and star-studded clouds. The words are thick in his throat, and when he chokes them out he feels a little more grounded in his resolution.

"And I cannot return it."

He is silent once more, and Frigga fears to tread further when Haraldr is in moods such as these. The seiðr clings to him, and takes on a frightful tangled appearance.

 **EIGHT**

"There is much that you do not know, sweetling," says Heith, and Eir watches the woman flutter about in prized woven cloths of Vanaheim. The woman has slowly opened her heart to her, Eir thinks, and with it, come the secrets that the Allfather has been yearning to hear.

Today is a subject on brewing draughts. She truly does have skill, because her flowing garments are nothing more than pristine, and her attentions are diverted from the act, "Asgardian Healers truly have little flexibility in the making of medicine. So afraid to… _tweak_ ingredients."

It begins a lesson in the modification of draughts.

 **NINE**

Pale grey eyes lock upon his, and Harry can see the slight furrow between the brow of Heith. The woman's presence has been nothing short of utter tumult in the palace, though she has failed to move those who answer directly to him - beautiful sorceress too enamoured with being the most important person in the room to interact with the kitchen staff and servants of the palace.

He gives her a short bow as courtesy dictates, but she takes it as an invitation to flutter over to his side with a sultry smile. The rest of the crowd that has gathered now dissipates, because Heith demands his attention with prominent body language.

"Lady Heith."

"Lord Haraldr."

"What do you seek, fair Lady?"

She smiles slowly, and Harry knows the image that they portray to the onlookers. She is bargaining for a boon, but it looks as if he is attempting to win her affections with compliments, the way that she preens.

"I seek many things. A night of _passion_ as your adoring crowd of warriors and maidens have desired alike. Freedom, as you too would like. But of the many things that I would like, you will most likely give me the one thing you value the least - your consideration to my words."

He cannot see into her mind, because she employs the similar tricks to mindwalking. But her voice is steady, and her seiðr placid. No attempts of falsity there, and he sweeps her body gesture without finding any clue.

"My attentions are upon you as I speak, dear Lady."

 **TEN**

He is truly a creature of darkest beauty - ink for hair, ebony leather for garments, and most of all, drops of poison green for eyes set in a deathly pale complexion. His voice trails shivers up her arm, and Heith struggles to keep her composure when he sweeps his gaze along her body as he finishes his sentence.

He has at least agreed to listen to her - she knows that he will take drastic action if she even tries to weave her seiðr like she did in previous attempts. He cannot suspect anything, and so she begins her carefully practiced words, "There are many other places that would benefit from your presence, Hjortrson."

There is a heartbeat of consideration in that ethereal face, before he laughs, "I cannot leave with you, if that is what you are requesting." His face has returned to its former imperturbability, and he excuses himself before heading to the King's side.

She only notices the bloodied crescents in her palms in the twilight of her rooms, while preparing for sleep.

 **ELEVEN**

"A man's heart can be won by a woman who fits his ideals. Or better yet, fit his ideals onto you," is what Heith says. The draught in the palm-sized glass bottle is molten gold, and heavy in her hands. Eir has brewed it under the close instruction of Heith, and she knows it to be harmless - wholesome, even.

"A drop in his food each day for a normal man to become agreeable to any woman who serves his food, " there is a pause as Heith turns knowing eyes on her, and Eir can feel the heat in her cheeks, "though you may need to increase the dose each day for a seiðr practitioner such as Hjortrson."

 **TWELVE**

"My Lord."

Lifa sounds uncomfortable today, and Harry guesses that the nervousness is due to her shadow today. The girl is cheerful by nature, and loves to chatter about the latest happenings in the kitchens and the day's meal. Eir stands at her elbow, and Harry turns to acknowledge them.

He rises from his seat at the table to retrieve the tray from Lifa, when Eir interrupts him, "She was reluctant to surrender her tray to me."

The servant girl _dares_ to speak up against her, "But My Lord-"

Haraldr merely waves a hand to calm her, "I understand, Lifa. Thank you for following my instruction. If Healer Eir wishes for the tray to be in her possession, then let her have it. If the food does not make it to my stomach then I shall go down to the kitchens, hmm?"

The girl smiles, and Haraldr dismisses her with a soft voice. The tray is set down on the table, and he turns to Eir, "Did you wish to dine with me? We will have to share, though."

Eir declines. It will be suspicious if she dines with him today and then not after today, "I just wished to bring your midday meal to you, seeing as your work takes up the most of your day."

Haraldr settles into the chair, "As you wish then, Lady Eir," and proceeds to pay his meal undivided attention.

 **THIRTEEN**

He's finally gotten comfortable with her delivering his meals whenever she can, but yet he exhibits no signs of the draught working. The food looks exotic today, and it smells especially good. She wonders if Heith's draught is a dud.

 _The clatter of the spoon is loud, and he turns to make a joke about her clumsiness -_

 _Oh. Oh gods._

 _Her hand is to her mouth, and there is blood escaping from her porcelain white hands._

She lies on the stone, shallow breaths wracking her body as her sister Healers tweak the readings on their Soul Forge. The diagnosis does not look good from their grim faces. Every now and then they wipe at her mouth, careful to not let him see the thin crimson trickle that stains the cloth. But he catches their movements and the look on their faces.

"We will only know what plagues her when she awakens, Lord Hjortrson."

They have inklings of her condition, but they need the confirmation before they can proceed with the cure. He _already_ knows it. Poison has been in his food for years. Not in the food that the kitchens send up to him, but in the choice wines and food that come with delegates and envoys while out of the Realm Eternal. He has made no issue about it so far, because the least of his worries has been death by poisoning.

But she had nearly succumbed to it. Would have succumbed to it had been it not for him purging her stomach. But the poison has sunk its claws deep, and the trigger for the next attack is unknown as it sleeps in her blood.

 _Blood. It stains everywhere, her red hair, her pale skin._

 _It stains. The smell permeates his skin._

 _Her blood. On his hands._

 _It stains his soul._

 _Maybe that is why Death does not take him._

 _He has killed the mother of his children with his inability._

"Perfidy is punishable by death," the Allfather's voice is a lingering rumble through her bones, and Heith lowers her head further.

"I did not intend it so. My target was only meant to be the one as your Majesty had decided. What you demanded of me was either my loyalty or my life, and I have kept my life for myself," she lowers her head even further, and she can see her wretched reflection on the shining tiles, "you have my loyalty."

"And now you have freed the fate from its chains by failing to kill him," Odin's thunderous voice shakes loose the premonitions lodged in her head once again; of tiny daggers sinking into flesh just above the intricacies of Asgardian armour, of fire and brimstone raining down, of all the Realms falling into chaos.

She shudders at the reminder of destruction.

The trio of Vanaheim siblings have finally left - Eir will be fine, though a total recovery will be far from possible. There is something that is still withheld from him, but he can hardly find it in himself to care.

He is drowning again. There are claws dragging at him, pulling him down with them. Back into the insanity that he has crawled out from once upon a time. And maybe he will stay there, living in an endless cycle of happiness and immeasurable sorrow. A wave of his hand sends the room into a blinding darkness, darker than the void that he has travelled through.

There are enough eternities left in him to go back into dreaming up another hundred thousand lifetimes.

It is much like entering the den of a beast, Odin thinks. The light from the windows has been barred from entry from the tangled seiðr spanning across the walls, and whatever light that spills in from the hallway disappears into the maw of Haraldr's suite of rooms.

There is not even sound to furnish the darkness.

He must be calm. He cannot show a single morsel of ill-intention. Haraldr Hjortrson is even more of a broken man than when he arrived in Asgard, and there is an eldritch glimmer in feral emerald eyes when the light in Odin's hands reflect off a pale face.

There is are ways to coax such creatures from hiding. There are methods to achieve what he wants - that is how Asgard has amassed weapons and vessels of great power. And to properly leash this one, the requirement calls for blood to be properly spilled.

 **No spoilers here. But we have cliffhangers, will those do?**

 **So. I've watched TDW. It's given new direction to what I had written before (eleven chapters), regarding** _ **The Dark World**_ **\- the older readers of Transliterations will know what I mean - and all I have to do is tweak it a little to fit my story (comic-movie canon).**

 **Remember "** _ **The following chapters will more or less retain their original content.**_ **" from my author's note in chapter four? It became a lie the moment I saw a reviewer's comment and got an idea. That idea had some wicked claws stuck in and refused to let go until I wrote 'Thirteen'.**

 **With this new interlude (hah, double entendre), I will have to root through my chapters again for small corrections and tweaks. So much for my two-month revision. Do let me know if I have errors in my writing. (Kudos to Swallow-Tailed Kite for spotting errors in the last chapter.)**

 **As always, your words are the ones that keep mine going.**

 **Cheers,**

 **ikki.**


	6. Chapter 5

**A quick update because this chapter's been waiting a long time to be up, and I had some doubts to clear up. I'll be busy with real life as usual.**

 **Chapter 5:**

 **A writer, I would fancy myself, if things could be. But take note, I do not write for others – I write for my own amusement, and my brand of storytelling is my own – I only share these worlds that I dream up.**

 _I've destroyed demons and monsters, devastated whole worlds, laid waste to mighty kingdoms…_

 _ **Odin Allfather,**_

 **From the** **script** **of Marvel's Thor**

 **945 A.D.**

War.

It is aggression. Assault. Attack. Battle. Warfare. Bloodshed.

There are outbreaks. Fear. Violence. Chaos. Fury.

War is the mutual slaughter of living beings.

And war means _death to the masses_.

It is repulsive to those unacquainted with it, but now, it is no more a stranger to him. Even standing in the epicenter of it all, there is nothing but acceptance now - that peace will never be perpetual.

He had perceived this war long before he could smell the smelting and forging of Asgardian steel, and had heard its telltale rumbles through the World Tree before whispers and worries graced the words of his fellow Asgardians.

Death had stayed as an undeniable phantom at the foot of his bed, always sending him imageries of war - blood freshly spattered across armour, flesh rendered pale from lack of lifeblood, glassy unseeing eyes piercing into his soul. She has woken him up time and again, and each time he remembers a little more of his purpose.

They were forewarnings, long before Odin's eyes showed bottomless rage and anger at the Jötun who laid icy waste to the humans who worshipped the Æsir. It was not the first time that ísöld had ravaged the lands that was yet-to-be-and-once-was his home, Harry had mused then, but it would be the last Ice Age, from his memories.

And now, it was nigh time to end it.

The army that stands before him is made of polished weapons and armour, familiar faces hidden under grim expressions and helmets. They are ready, for Haraldr Hjortrson to send them into Jötunheim the moment the army from Midgard returns, _to beat the Jötun back into the heart of their own realm and make sure that they stay there_ – and he imagines the shine of metal marred by specks of frost and frozen blood.

It is an inevitable thing, he knows, and he is reminded of the Allfather's words from once upon a time, declaring his hand in the destruction of worlds with a grossly misplaced pride. He remembers walls...carved and painted with astonishing detail.

 _Beautiful yet terrible truths of things to come._

He stills himself, locking his joints to pre-empt the bout of weakness when Heimdall moves to unlock the power of the _Bifröst._ His sensitivity has only grown while in the service of Asgard, and as the first wave warps into sight, he staggers under the quantity of souls _so much closer to Her now._

They are all in critical state, and he quickly levitates the severely wounded onto the pathways, where the reserve soldiers stand ready to take the wounded to the Healers. The next few waves will consist of those with lighter wounds, and of the dead… and from the current numbers, Harry expects that the uninjured will be few and far between the initial numbers sent to Midgard.

His attention returns to the army under his command, watching as they ready themselves for _Bifröst travel._

 _Checkmate, mate. You should've paid more attention, Harry._

 _You can't save everything without the sacrifices of the pieces._

He prefers his own way of traversing the World Tree as opposed to the lurching motion of the Bifröst, but he lands on his feet firmly nonetheless. The sheer shock of cold on his face precedes the sensation of crunching ice beneath his feet, and Harry opens his eyes to take _in_ Jötunheim.

It seems like a sinister snow globe world, where the ice and the wind create wind-borne icicles fast and sharp enough to pierce armour.

There are many more things hiding below the layers of frost and ice according to his senses, but they are of little concern right now, because Death stands in front of him. She stands between him and a veritable wall of Frost Giants, and he hears the drawn breaths of shock from the soldiers as the Jötun clamber up from the hidden edges of the icy plateaus. The cold grows even fiercer as their ice-craft forms blades on their arms, and there is an accompaniment that follows the threat - a shiver of movement as Asgardian soldiers ready their blades.

Odin makes his way towards Harry, and he wordlessly cedes control of the army to the Allfather. He, Haraldr Hjortrson, does not partake of the battle lust in wars, not since the legendary Æsir -Vanir war, a long time since past.

This is the first of many battles in the ice and snow of Jötunheim, but this is the last of that long chain that will end the decades-long war. Harry watches as the King raises his chosen weapon, and hears the battle cries of both sides. The army flows around him, and he stays out of the range of all the ranged weapons, silently watching as the soldiers fight off blades of ice, with steel forged from fire.

The Frost Armies have retreated. Perhaps they have merely drawn the Æsir troops deeper into the never-ending ice. But it is most likely that these skirmishes have been nothing more than a diversion - the movement under his feet have diminished, refugees safely tucked away under the thick crust of ice. Harry only follows; neither the Allfather nor his men care about strategies, or the art of war.

 _Just glory._

He trails at the end of the Æsir troops, as they leave death and destruction in their wake. There are those who are not-quite dead yet, but there is not the slimmest chance of survival for the them – not with nearly severed torsos and necks.

He draws one of the four specially crafted daggers from its sheath – watches for the understanding in their eyes when he approaches to extend the tender mercies of Death, hears their last entreaties in the gravelly speech of both the gravel-hewn Frost Giant tongue and lilting Æsir tongue.

The reflection in their eyes show him alternate visions of what they see – he is of the Valkyrie, he is Skaði, he is a father, mother, lover, wife, son, daughter. Their souls are made of unquantifiable emotion and intangible warmth, made of fear and despair and relief and thanks as he cleanses their souls and releases them to Death for her keeping. He sifts through the slivers of silver, honouring their existence. Watches and remembers their dreams and hopes as they fade into the darkness.

He does not take their lives on his own - all things have their own time to end themselves, no matter how he wants things to go.

He follows the trail of crushed snow and smouldering embers of the Æsir camps, and silently laments the loss of the great and intricate Jötnar structures where they fall and fracture; they are carved records of cultures and history, destroyed forever.

It is a small mercy that only the Jötnar warriors remain in the citadel – the conclusion of this war is the eventual decline of the Frost Giants. Much like the World Wars… but on a magnitude almost unimaginable.

There lies the final stronghold.

Asgardians rage against the final walls, looking like an angry splotch of rust against the expressionless ice. A hole has been made in the wall, and Harry watches as the bodies pile up in the bottleneck.

Death showers him with a mental barrage of images, all too familiar, because he has lost count of the times that he has seen it before –the top of the tower where two kings battle, a solitary structure devoid of all life, a room holding the Casket of Ancient Winters, and a room half shrouded in darkness. Her visions have been what he has needed to slip his intangible restraints.

It is the crucial moment that She has been waiting for, so he makes haste with Apparition.

Odin's eyepatch is gone - all traces of it scorched away with the surrounding skin - Harry knows all too well the magical signature of a Frost Giant Sorcerer. There is a convincing strength in the Allfather's posture as the man gets up on his own two feet.

King Laufey lies on the ground, wounded.

A cursory inspection reveals that the defeated King is incapacitated, such that he cannot even attack without losing his life to a retaliating blade, and that his wounds are insufficient to tempt Death into taking his soul. Laufey will live, and his strength and experience will most likely be enough to reunite his people and rebuild the kingdom. There is no doubt that the Asgardian sovereign watches while Harry kneels beside the King of Jötunheim.

Laufey is propped up with a bit of transfigured frost, and Harry is sure not to touch the Jötnar, "King Laufey."

Red eyes look upon him, accompanied by a voice reminiscent of glaciers colliding, "You _will_ bring death upon Jötunheim."

"Where Life exists, Death follows regardless; war merely hastens the loss of life, your Highness."

He casts several spells in one row – from shielding spells, Notice-me-not charms to binding curses – and then they are alone. He looks into the eyes of the Frost Giant King, and then plunges into the ice-cold memories of Laufey.

A blizzard falls about him. It is a gargantuan mindscape, icy tundra that spreads out beneath his feet as far as the eye can see, and every facet of the snowflakes are lit by muted starlight from above. Intricate yet sturdy thoughts yet always in motion, judging by the thundering grind of glaciers. He uses the source of the sound as a guide, and sets off traversing the packed snow.

There is a brief realization that maybe not all is at it seems, because the seemingly rock-hard ice collapses beneath his feet.

 _You will find that people have resilience._

 _Fortitude to endure._

 _But nothing is strong; not all the way through._

There are monsters trapped in the ice. All memories - _songs of bravery and valour_. The Jötun are a fierce and enduring people, and have carried the histories of their forefathers in their hearts, and the evidence of their bloodlines on their skins.

Harry's footsteps slow.

The glacial ice here is murky. There is something frozen in the ice there, not a legendary monster of history and pride. Something forbiddingly beautiful is entombed in ice, obscured by cloudy ice.

 _Down this way leads the road to madness._

He allows himself a brief pause, a small something to acknowledge the precious cargo. It is called a _casket_ for a reason. The ice in his hand vanishes into the ether, and there is the lingering sensation of something heavy in his empty hands.

The Casket of Ancient Winters is falsely named; it does not hold the strength of all the past Winters in Jötunheim. The knowledge sits heavy in his gut, even as the cold lingers in his veins long after he has vanished it into the ether. And even then, he can feel the cold seeping into his collection of eclectic items over the years. It seeks his magical core, and the ancient magic is quickly overcome by his system, though his blood feels a fraction cooler now.

Odin watches as he clenches his fingers, as if to rid himself of the cold and then the King stalks down the hallway once again.

They follow a set of stairs that spirals downward, far below the tower where the duel of two Kings has already taken place, deep into the ground. They reach _that room_ after the chill of their surroundings have frozen tiny icicles into his hair, and Harry marvels at it – a corner of the ceiling is linked directly to the surface, moonlight spilling down the shaft from one of Jötunheimr's many moons, leaving the rest of the room in stark contrast with the weak light.

It is a stunning room – cavernous, etched with markings – sacred, even. He would have called it a place of worship, for hope and prayers, if not for the lingering touches of Death upon the hall. It is a room to place the privileged dead, or the dying. And it is certainly no place for a _child_ to lie on an altar, like a twisted form of a live sacrifice to an equally twisted God.

And yet, the Allfather stands before the child, a forgotten prince of the Frost Giants. He can practically taste the tendrils of scheming from Odin's mind, and it is practically drenched in misguided intentions. It is a terrible thing to envision of a child, and it makes Harry recall the childhood that he has not quite forgotten, even after so long. He has not quite escaped it, even after so long.

"You would take him back as a spoil of war?" the question bounces about the caverns, and it halts Odin's hand from touching the child. The King turns and looks at him, and Harry focuses on that sole eye. Watches it shift left and right in an attempt to speak false reason.

"He would be _my son_. And he would not be left to die here, and he could even bring… peace to the two kingdoms," _or be used as a hostage_ , supplies Harry's mind, because the Allfather is not above petty tactics and bloodshed to gain the upper hand.

Harry knows the truth from Laufey, and hidden in-between the lines of the Allfather's statement is Odin's knowledge of it, either by reading the grand markings that adorn the child or by the spies deep within Jötunheim. Only a rightful King could ascend the throne. Harry shakes his head, "Your _loyal_ subjects should not think so."

He has not been a stranger to Æsir minds. Asgardians have not even a sliver of room in their hearts for forgiveness to those who have cause Æsir blood to flow, and rightful heir to the Throne of Jötunheim will never be fully accepted, a mere princeling in the shadows if Fate would be so kind. The timing is ill; young Thor is just shy of a year old, and the Æsir armies, who have been under the full-time command of their King, have barely concluded a decade-old war on the Jötnar.

To bring back a son born during a war will be a thousand slights to the Queen, and Harry is disinclined to subject Frigga to it. To declare him a Prince is to doom an innocent childhood – to subject a child to veiled ridicule of being a product of wandering affections, by a King, no less. And worse of all scenarios – suspicions thrown upon a tiny child, to be the unholy union of jötnar and the King of the Æsir.

 _Cries of fury against blood impure,_

 _and stealers of magic,_

 _and he watches as his best friend cries._

"My words of advice have fallen upon your deafness for countless times," his throat is tight, his voice steely, and he watches as Odin's attention comes upon himself again, "but I will not allow you to bring this innocent as a pawn to your machinations. You will not _touch_ him. Your hands are stained with blood of his people. _Your Queen_ sits upon your throne waiting for your return, for you to cradle your son in your own arms. You _cannot_ do this," the last words are squeezed out of his lungs in a hiss. He steps closer to the altar, and watches the child turn wet crimson eyes up at him. The tiny one is too weak to even cry for attention, and even the whimper that escapes comes from a throat worn raw.

He imagines that his situation had been similar; parents already dead and cold, crying for someone to rescue him from the cradle, away from the sight of his parents sprawled lifeless on the floor. Rescued and then left to fend for himself. And yet, worlds different. An orphan of sorts; mother fading quickly after childbirth, father defeated with his mind nearly lost to the world, left to die if the conquest failed, instead of being evacuated along with the rest of the civilians.

The little one is too weak to survive the harshness of his own world, though the abstract artwork of lines across the child's brow – patterns stretching around a tiny torso and equally petite limbs – tell of _destiny_.

A pang strikes his heart. Cold, alone, weak. A tragic soul that has known nothing but suffering from the time that he has been born. Death will not take such a tragic soul away from him; _he_ will take the child away instead.

The child lies weakly in his arms, shifting into the soft leather of his armor for comfort, where the heating charms are still in effect.

"And so, he will be yours, Hjortrson," strain colours Odin's face when he lands a battle-scarred hand onto the child. Magic seeps into the skin of the infant… and where the blue edged with symbolic lines once was, is unmarred pale skin.

Darkly lashed green eyes peer back at him.

 _And so… he is my son,_ his mind echoes after the Allfather.

Odin lingers within the depths of the cavernous underground passages in search of items of _interest_ , and Harry is quick to dismiss himself in order to 'secure the Casket'. There are urgent matters to attend to in Asgard, and a dozen more that require his presence to be carried out - leaving him no time to stay in Jötunheim to ensure that Laufey will do what a King is meant to do.

There are memories that run in his head while he rips the ends of his cape to form a makeshift blanket to swaddle the child in. He climbs the steps to the surface, summoning the warriors from his immediate area. The veterans he picks out with no problem, and they ask no questions about his orders, the only response is the prompt action that they take after he dismisses them. The young and barely-experienced stay in front of him – high on adrenaline and bloodlust, _proud_ of the fresh Jötun blood that slicks their armour and blades.

With Death all around him, _it is easy_ , to forget that no one else can truly sense her presence.

He snarls at them, careful not to jostle the bundle in his arms – they are men, with a higher consciousness than animals fighting on instinct, and yet they linger on base levels of outright cruelty and disregard for life. They look shocked at his sharp tone, and then turn paler than the frost that lines their armour when they realise that _he knows_ what they have been doing to the Jötnar warriors – the incapacitated, the wounded, the dying, and the dead – and the consequences that await them.

Desecration of the dead is ultimately punishable by execution in both of the Realms, and Harry hints that he has no qualms about handing over the young soldiers to the people of Jötunheim.

They are promised an unpleasant experience in Asgard upon the end of the customary celebrations, and Harry makes a mental note to make an example of similar atrocities. He leaves them under the command of the veteran soldiers, casting a quick eye about the ruined infrastructure before inspecting the rest of the battlefield in the Frost Kingdom.

He is satisfied with the efforts, as the Æsir armies are starting to segregate the different classes of wounded, dying and dead of both Realms, and so he calls out to Heimdall.

The ground lurches beneath him when Heimdall answers to his call, and Harry finds himself alone with the Gatekeeper. The 'all-seeing' Guardian of the Gates glances past the concealment charms and the torn cloth of his cloak, and stares for a moment at the child in his arms.

"I have Seen. And I grant him entry into the Realm Eternal."

He decides against Apparition to the palace for obvious reasons, even though it is the faster choice – Eylir has long been returned to the stables. The Elder Wand finds its way into his free hand, sensing his need before the thought has even come to his mind. The prerequisite to the spell brings him incredible heartache –

 _flaming hair and a mischievous twist of her lips, laughter of children somewhere_

– but it does result in a fully corporeal stag Patronus, larger than he can ever remember, and furnished with astonishing details – bright eyes and lush white fur are the only thing he registers before the animal nuzzles his cheek with enthusiasm.

It makes him smile, and Harry pushes away its head with a playful bat after allowing a cursory snuff at the child in his arms, and the stag bows down on one leg for him to get up. It is wholly a surprise to feel _its_ delight trickling through him from his Patronus, and he loosens himself from the grimness of the situation on Jötunheim as the stag bounds down the length of the rainbow bridge. The night sky is spread above them, the stars trapped in the ink.

The gates open nearly too late; the guards are slack jawed at the sight of the elusive Advisor riding on an enormous stag. The gap is just wide enough for the massive antlers to leave brush noiselessly past. There is a brief, _absurd_ epiphany then, the 'son of the stag' riding his father's namesake down the streets of Asgard, and Harry feels the grin stretch his mouth.

The giddy joy quickly dampens when they near the palace – a trace of Death still lingers. Her touch is rare in the city itself, a race of near-immortals who have yet far chosen to meet Her in the battlefields, a rite of passage to Valhalla.

He dismounts the stag, but does not dismiss it. His animal escort lends a positive calm to his thoughts as he strides down the halls to the receiving hall. Frigga is already there, probably having waited since the messengers' arrival to declare the surrender of the Jötun.

She flashes a surprised glance at the great white stag before fluttering into motion toward him, worry evident in her face for her husband. He calms her down with low tones, explaining that there is no cause for worry. She listens to the quick message that the King will soon return with his personal guard, that the troops will follow after their military duties.

"He is fatigued from his battle with King Laufey, and will require aid from the Healers. I will inform Healer Eir as soon as I have secured the Casket in the Vault."

She relaxes at the news, and then notices the child in his arms. He has to catch himself from physically backing away from the Queen when she reaches for the child.

"To whom does that child belong to?"

The words are soft, "He… is my… son," and yet, he feels the weight of his words, and that of her gaze.

He reluctantly leaves the child in her hands, and when she asks him for a name, he averts his gaze, "I have not yet named him, your Majesty. He was found in the depths of Jötunheimr, left to die. His mother was nowhere to be found, and she is most likely lost forever, along with whichever name that she would have chosen for him."

There is a profound sadness in his eyes that Haraldr himself is not aware of.

The large white stag fades into nothingness at the wave of his hand, and Frigga immediately regrets her asking at the look on his face, and he leaves the room immediately to finish his tasks before the King returns to Asgard before she can even assuage the pain in his features with an apology. The dark tattered cape trails sadly out the door, and Frigga turns her attention to the babe in her arms.

Dark lashes, pale skin and delicate features, not unlike Haraldr's.

A lone pedestal stands along the main walkway of the vault, a testament to Odin's surety of victory of the war with Jötunheim.

He leaves the Casket of Ancient Winters on that embodiment of vanity and ostentation, leaving as quickly as possible; the presence of _several_ failed Hallows taints the room, and fills him with a sense of wrongness.

The brief stop at the Healers' is just long enough to detail the Allfather's wounds to Eir, as she warms his hands for a fraction of a minute before checking him over for injuries. He leaves soon after with a murmured excuse, because the recent turn of events has raised more concerns than he can put to rest. He does not turn back to look at her.

The kitchens, however, are a different story. Even in the dead of the night, there is a full staff manning the fort.

"Master Hjortrson! You are well, I hope?" one of the seniority greets him, showing all of her laugh lines with a broad smile. The rest of the staffs share their sentiments of relief with words and smiles, and Harry can't help but feel a measure of contentment in their camaraderie. A mug of his own special brew is jostled into his hands, and Harry smiles at the warmth.

"Surely you do not doubt my abilities, Madame? I would hate to leave the silverware in a state of disrepair, and you know how I get when I am reminded of the dented goblets." They share a laugh at his jest, before Harry relays the information from Eir: the Healers require an assortment of nourishing herbs and food for the injured.

The staffs in the kitchen are cheery even in close proximity to the scorching heat of the stoves, the younger ones scrambling to get the request in order and sent to the Healing Chambers. A few more moments are shared, and he makes plans to dine with them when the commotion caused by the war dies down.

A location charm sets his bearings right, and he brings the flask that the kitchen has prepared as per his request, to the Royal Chambers.

Frigga has already dressed the– _his son_ in clothes when he is permitted to enter. The Queen has her hands full with the year-old fussy blonde who gurgles happily at him, but she somehow manages to direct him to the cot where the infant lies asleep.

The clothes he recognizes as Prince Thor's old clothes, but the garments are ill-fitting, and he frowns at the fabric nearly pooling underneath. The adjustments are easily made with his holly wand; a few charms modified to tailor the clothes to a better fit, and a colour changing charm to turn the royal red into a less conspicuous dark green.

It is then that the young Prince attests to his namesake, with a thunderous yell. The sleeping infant awakens after Thor's loud yell for attention, and Harry himself jumps at the high-pitched shriek that follows. The startled whimper is tell-tale, and it is nothing short of surprising when his memory takes over.

 _He is scared, and she knows the fear too well._

 _You do it like this, dear._

One hand underneath to support the fragile neck, the other for the body, and then a careful manoeuvre for the head to rest at the crook of the elbow, the forearm keeping the child to his side, leaving his other hand free. The prepared flask is retrieved, and the lid is quickly transfigured into a rubber teat.

The husbands of Asgard have no business in childrearing, unless it comes to harsh discipline and teaching their heirs the tricks of their trade. Frigga's surprise at his practiced actions is nearly tangible, but he ignores her stare in favour of bouncing his son gently, coaxing lips open to accept the warmed goat's milk. The little one is suckling well, considering the fact that it is the first substantial meal in a long time, and Harry is careful to limit the amount that his _son_ does ingest.

She recovers admirably, "I wish that you could have been on hand with my son as well," teasing lightly.

"I would have gladly acquiesced, my Queen, but my attention was occupied with… other matters," and that is nothing but the truth – he had reluctantly ceded command of the troops over to the sovereign of Asgard while trying to juggle too much too fast. Diplomacy issues with Alfheim and Niðavellir, supplies for feeding and watering the massive amount of troops mobilized… He was _running_ an army, whilst the Allfather sent them to their deaths in a war that only centered on brute force on the battlefield.

His resolve has only hardened after seeing the aftermath today; too many lives lost in the heat of battle on both sides, feeding never-ending cycles of death and hatred from the Allfather's splitting of skulls and the spilling of blood.

"Would it help if my future endeavours after all the wartime formalities will include spending more time with my godson?"

The mood lightens with his returning quip, and Frigga leaves with her son to the receiving halls. Harry himself returns to his chambers, with his sleeping son in his arms – his presence is not needed in the great halls when the court assembles for a merry feast.

The silence in this moment has been hard-won and rare – there are preparations to be made for the coming days, and the roar of celebrations when the soldiers return will be nothing short of deafening.

He slips a book from his pocket dimension, watching from the edge of his bed at the little boy nestled in the center. The little one is sound asleep now, well-fed and content. The candlelight flickers over his compilation of notes of the Immortal Tongues over the years, and he deliberates over each one.

That night, he decides on a name for his tiny son. A name from which for his son to draw purpose, meaning and being; a simple wish for him to rise above his circumstances, to make something for himself in a world that spins on the axis of war and bloodshed. He does not want for his son to be trapped in the clutches of blood feuds, rash actions and petty grudges.

 _To rise, to be aloft…_

 _To be free of whatever that binds you_

 _ **Loki.**_ _[i]_

That night, he caresses Loki's brow, wiping at the tiny furrow.

And that night, he smiles when the child relaxes into his touch.

The day dawns as it has always done over the millennia, but there is a gloom that hangs over the sea in the far distance. He summons his Patronus with only just _intent_ , and realises that it is not a true Patronus – he has not even thought of any happy memories, and it has its own awareness of sorts, linked to him somewhere in his brain.

He leaves the white stag to guard his still slumbering child, and leaves his rooms.

"Haraldr."

She comes out from the adjoining hallway halfway to his destination, and his heart does not fail to jump at the head of red hair and radiant smile before he can even catch himself. He has confused the woman before his eyes and the woman in his heart foolishly for far too many times, and it has cost both her and him.

The look in her eyes is telling - she has probably heard about his son, still yet to be named.

She is confused with his intentions, and he has no idea so as to assuage the once-again raw beginnings of hurt and heartbreak shown so clearly in her eyes.

"Loki. His name… his name is Loki."

She turns and disappears, and he does not chase after her – he is needed somewhere else.

There are far more than he expects today - only because the embalmers have worked tirelessly throughout the long hours of the night - but he knows that is is not all of the dead who have died for the mythical glimpse of Valhalla. There will be another one tomorrow, and the days after… and this is merely one side of the war - the Realm of Everlasting Frost has its own.

There is a lingering regret when he watches the shoreline, but he cuts the emotion ruthlessly and shoves it into the recesses of his mind. Citizens dressed in mourning garb hover about the boats with a slowness borne of grief and disbelief, gently placing items into the interior of the boats, next to the deceased.

He knows what it looks like from the shoreline; men who look like they are merely in slumber, framed by food and clothing, and dressed in the decorated fineries befitting of their rank.

Fathers and mothers gently stroke the faces of their sons – wrong as it is for a parent to send off their child. Sisters and brothers weep, while wives and children stare uncomprehending at the sight. He waits silently, for the last whispers of goodbye, heartbroken wails, and the soft caress of lips to foreheads as they step back.

' _War does not decide who is right – it decides who is left', is what it means, Harry._

Two men to a boat… and with mighty heave from each pair, the boats are set adrift. Eyes turn to him, but he does not meet them, instead closing his own. He draws strings from the fabric, rubs them together – forming friction between the fibres and moulding them with his mind.

A Firestorm rises with his outstretched hands, all of its infinite fiery tongues licking hungrily at the air. It is easily tempered to his will, and follows his commands to abandon its form. The ring of fire splits into creatures that he has known well over the years, greeting his half-open eyes.

Skogatt, reminiscent of Freyja's wagon pullers. Freyr's favoured boar. A raven, a wolf, and a dog, representing the chosen animals of Asgard's King and Queen. A hunting dog, a mighty steed, a hunting falcon. A stag, with an impossible crown of fire.

And he sends them off to the wooden ships, observing as they soar through the air, igniting the wood with their touches, with every leap or brush of wingtip. There is a song from the fragment of a memory that he has seen before from a departed mind:

" _Fourscore,_

 _and fourscore more,_

 _through the boats do the fires roar._

 _The lives that have been lost through war,_

 _I hope that you will fight forever more,_

 _in Valhalla's halls that you have hoped for_

 _since the time of yore."_

He turns, and walks away.

" _Fourscore,_

 _and fourscore more…"_

He turns his back on the sea set alight by both the light of the living fire and that of the rising sun.

There are too many things to be done, and his mind is already tired, but all he has now are half-sketched plans and schedules. There is one sole priority; the little one that sleeps safely on his bed, or so his familiar assures him though the spider-silk link.

And all that stands between himself and his destination is the Allfather.

"That was truly a remarkable display."

He turns his gaze upon the lone eye, "The least I could do to comfort the families of those who have thrown their lives for a glimpse of Valhalla," _because I have sent them to their deaths by ceding control,_ is the unspoken sentiment that he will never say and that no one will know.

There is a deep-seated anger that he knows the Allfather feels, "It is as you said to Laufey - Death hastens with the march of War."

"Your _Royal Highness_ , it simply _honours_ me that you have deigned to repeat my own words." His words are dripping with acidic insinuations, and he sees the Allfather's face twist with fury. The King's fingers twitch, as if he would like no more than to brutalize or even _kill_ him for the slights that Hjortrson has uttered.

He knows what Odin sees: Haraldr Hjortrson, bound by oaths and leashed by the Allfather's blood running in his veins. It had been a long con, Harry will at least recognise that fact, and admit that he had fallen to the words that Odin had spoken.

Harry hardens his own eyes in response, and shows the scar across right palm, and sees the Allfather freeze at the sight of the raised line. It is a familiar mark to those of the military ranks of Asgard - the mark of sworn brotherhood between those who have shared blood freely. Harry _had_ shared blood freely, only to realise that Odin had more tricks up his sleeve - in his beard, even.

He drops his hand to his heart in deference, "And now, as advisor and _brother_ to Odin Allfather, _I shall know my place_ , as you have ordered. As is for the good of Asgard, my King."

Odin remains speechless when his advisor dismisses himself, citing the need to attend to pressing duties. Haraldr has finally found a way to overcome the call that beckons through his veins.

 _ **Loki**_ _ **, otherwise known as**_ _ **Loptr**_ _ **, is loosely translated to 'aloft' in Icelandic, which I am told is the closest to Old Norse. Loki translates loosely to 'to lock, to end, to close. I am bending the translations to my benefit, as always.**_

Here's the gist of what I've been getting...

 **Readers: '** **Harry is** _ **powerful**_ **'** **and 'Harry has the** _ **ability**_ **', so why the heck is Harry at the beck and call of Odin (insert-insult) Allfather? Get your story straight, ikki.**

 **Hey there. Calm down. Take a seat, you can't strangle me by banging on your keyboard. Technically you could, in the fashion of dark assassination hit-man** _ **things**_ **that you can achieve with the internet... so let's talk about psychology instead.**

 **Have you** _ **ever**_ **known someone who has** _ **never**_ **made a wrong decision?**

 **Have you** _ **never**_ **followed popular opinion, or been coerced into something?**

' **People' are by mentality, 'pack creatures'. Surviving** _ **alone**_ **is nearly impossible. And enduring what seems to be a never-ending eternity with no one, all alone in the void... The fact that you escaped it and no one will believe your circumstance just makes it worse. Being outcast in a Realm that hates what you are... and spending** _ **years tocarve**_ **a place where you belong... where there are people who you love and they have accepted you in return… no one would want to leave.**

 **Yes, that's unhealthy and abusive and you're being taken advantage of. But you would rather stay than go back to the nothingness, hm?**

 **That's what Harry thinks. (Actually, that's a lie. That's what** _ **I**_ **think.)**

 **Notes on Odin:**

 **Odin (in my interpretation) looks upon himself to be** _ **superior**_ **to others. This process is called dehumanization (there are great articles on this topic). We do it too. Instead of referring to certain groups and cultures, we often use (unintentional) derogatory slang - blacks and whites and labels - for people who do not hail from our own cultures. We see 'uncivilized' people as barbarians, and people who have different values are 'uncultured'. Maybe it is due to the fact that our brains are not equipped to sympathise on a huge level.**

 **So, no. Harry was** _ **not**_ **feral in the last chapter, it was written in Odin's point of view.**

 **Also, Odin's character in the movie(s) just does not scream to me that he is a kindly old man figure who vomits compassion and understanding all over the unsuspecting citizens of Asgard. He** _ **is**_ **a War God in mythology ( Wikipedia is on my side in this).**

 **There's no button on this site to clear questions publicly. Leave me an 'Ask' on my tumblr. I'll be glad to share more.**

 **As always, your** _ **kind**_ **words are the ones that keep mine going.**

 **Cheers,**

 **ikki.**


	7. Chapter 6

**A writer, I would fancy myself, if things could be. But take note, I do not write for others – I write for my own amusement, and my brand of storytelling is my own – I only share these worlds that I dream up.**

 _There is no instance of a country having benefited from prolonged warfare._

 _The Art of War,_

 **By Sun Tzu**

She has no real reason to be here, but her heart constricts at the feeling of _not knowing_. Habit is the silent force that draws deep breaths into her lungs to steady her frayed nerves. Determination orders her to swing one leg over the horse's back and dismount from her mare.

The light of the Asbrú springs to life under her feet, and she can feel the unearthly tingle through the layers of leather. She has insubstantial reason to be here - an Asgardian Healer does not leave the Realm Eternal and the Gatekeeper does nothing else except watch over Asgard.

But he had stood here countless times, and even so far away, the dark green and black was recognizable against the luminescence of the Asbrú. He had stood there like a beacon of surety, even when Asgard was thrown into war preparations with a barely-veiled panic. He had stared down into the star-studded blackness of space, thoughts swimming in his expression.

His face had been undecipherable, but now, now she knew. With Loki cradled in his arms. Something that she could never give him, even though her heart and soul she would have gladly given to him. She finishes walking along the short stretch of the bridge, and stands at the edge.

"Is she beautiful?"

Heimdall does not answer for a while, and she nearly loses her resolve at the silence before the instance that he speaks, "I may be capable of seeing across the galaxies, and I may hear across the stars, Healer Eir, but I find myself utterly incapable of reading _minds_."

"The mother of his son. Is she beautiful?"

He pauses – the question can be answered so many ways, but he doesn't correct her in any form, "She _was_ beautiful," _so much so that a King would attempt to conquer a different Realm for their runt of a son, in memory of her death. So that their son would rule, unchallenged by mere mortals._ Heimdall watches, from a hundred worlds away as her face falls further. She thinks that he has gone to another, because she is _damaged_.

"She was beautiful, isn't it? She was whole the way I could never be," her heart seems to be shattered, and maybe the twinkle of the stars that he hears is that of her heart as well, "She is dead, so he goes down to Midgard to retrieve his half-blood son, the fruit of their short-lived love."

Heimdall observes as she stumbles back to her horse, half-blinded by anger and tears. The issue of Hjortrson's visits to Midgard are outside of diplomatic visits to other Realms – _Midgard is woefully powerless_ – and it is an open secret amongst the court gossips, and the man has never refuted the slanderous conclusions that they have come to.

The man merely travels Yggdrasil, and sometimes, Heimdall cannot even see him - the darkness is too great for even his piercing eyes. But where Hjortrson treads, allies and enemies of Asgard follow alike, and Heimdall has to applaud the man for keeping the target solely painted on his back instead of the entirety of the Realm Eternal.

He cannot leave his post to chase after her and correct her misinterpretations of the situation. And even then, they are secrets that are not his to reveal. Heimdall stands guard, watching a million other worlds. And it is there that he stays, at the end of the bridge, watching as stars fall and burn up in the sky of another world that floats in the galaxies, billions of stars away.

They shimmer like tears in the starlight.

His hands are cold.

The ancient seiðr from the Casket of Ancient Winters lingers in his veins, churning a constant coldness in his gut.

Death lingers in Jötunheim, clasping soul after soul in both hands, meticulously performing her duties as he does his own part in Asgard. Here, there is the sense of hope. And in the land where the Jötun roam, there is destitution, starvation, suffering. The Heart of the Frost beats furiously in the bowels of the Weapons Vault while the Realm dies slowly.

Distraction is a welcome thing - beginning with a jest, sustained with a round of playful insults. Harry takes to his feet with amusement barely veiled under faked indignation. The ringing of metal follows soon after, and Hallvarðr's huff of breath answers the kick that Harry lets loose.

"I've never thought that a man could go into war armed with nothing but four tiny blades," mutters Hallvarðr, as Harry deflects the large broadsword with Ivaldi's craftsmanship.

"I've never thought it impossible, my friend. And you forget that I have more than the knives of Ivaldi." Harry retorts, watching for the curved arc of his opponent's blade before striking.

He manages a cutting swipe at the wrist of the Weapons Master, and the weapon is disengaged from the man's hand with a hiss of pain. Hallvarðr checks instinctively for sliced flesh and blood – even though the both of them know that there will be none of the former as well as the latter – before bending to get his weapon again, "And I always thought that sharpened blades were meant to tear into flesh and spill blood."

Harry smiles, baring the full white of his teeth, and watches as the man sharply avoids his gaze, "Do you wish to die, then? They can kill, with the right intent. The craftsmanship is yet to be matched by his successors, as was his ability in drinking the best of my finest brew like a fish in water."

Hallvarðr switches the subject as fast as switching weapons, and dives for Harry's heart with an ornate glaive, "What of Dáinn, then? Surely he has not been birthed as a creation of the Dvergar forges."

The man refers to the white stag as Death, and Harry quietly dodges the blade that swipes at his calf. "You know what the others are saying now - that you have won the companionship of Death, one of the Great Four Stags that eats from the branches of Yggdrasil."

Harry laughs at the graveness of the man's voice, despite the fact that the former half of the sentence has hit it close to the mark, "Have you not heard yet? Your gossip is positively ancient, old man. They now say that I have summoned my father's soul from beyond his final journey, and harnessed him as a mount to suit my travels across the Realms. I wonder what form my soul will take when my son summons me then,"

Hallvarðr grins at his theatrical jest, but nevertheless continues with a flurry of jabs designed to seek out the soft flesh in-between ribs, "I cannot deny you your secrets, Haraldr Hjortson."

"Just as I cannot deny the Court of its only pleasure, Hallvarðr," the outcome of the battle is left undecided at that moment, just as the soldiers file into the room. They pull away from each other, and Harry takes a moment to straighten out a strap that has been biting into his skin ever since Hallvarðr grazed his cheek with the side of the glaive.

The doors open, and Rúni cannot help but let his eyes wander the walls of the room – gleaming blades line the walls. This is where legends are made. He has never set foot in these halls before, and all the training that his battalion has ever accomplished is the rudimentary formation.

The Weapons Master of the Guards has been there long since Rúni has ever known of his destiny as a second born male of his clan – intimidating and broad shouldered even without the layers of armour. It is no legend that Hallvarðr knows the extensive uses for each and every blade that the Guards have in their arsenal; it is a fact. But even the presence of the ever-impressive Hallvarðr… pales in comparison when he sees the man standing behind the Weapons Master.

Haraldr Hjortrson - otherwise secretly known within the ranks as the Shadow General of Asgard. The chills run up his spine at the emerald eyes that seem to pierce _everything_.

"Hello, gentlemen," the cultured tone of the sable-haired Advisor-General greets the silent room, "please, be at ease."

Harry does mean it, but all his request does is to make their posture even stiffer, if even possible – all they need is one unexpected noise-making charm to shatter spines into fragments. Perhaps it really is his fault, for scaring them senseless in the frigid grip of Jötunheim.

The newest battalion addition to Asgard's armies are nothing more than whelps; trained in the art of holding swords and nothing more, unschooled in anything more than basic tactical commands. Most of them have survived, by virtue of being the reserve units in the entirety of the war, a mere visual bolster to the flagging numbers of the Asgardian army.

He takes a deep breath, and banishes the unwanted thoughts from his mind.

Dáinn very nearly glows in the dark of his chambers, branching crown of antlers raised to acknowledge him - quite the impressive guardian to his sleeping son. There are tiny fingers curled into the soft hair, and Harry relaxes at the assurance spilling through the link before making his way to the bath to scrub the remnants of the training session from his skin.

Loki is half-awake when he returns, and turns his head to gurgle at Harry. He caves in almost immediately to his son's beckoning, and sits by Dáinn, picking his child up while humming a broken tune.

It is infinitely odd, to slip into the role of a father figure with such ease - he has not had much practice with it. There was always something that demanded his time, and when he had lost her, everything had ended too fast. Throwing himself into the thick of it then, to avoid the all-consuming grief, and before he knew it, they had grown up more or less without him.

Loki is tiny for his age - Laufey's own memories are murky beneath the crushing guilt and near insanity, but the once-heir to the Jötunheim throne is older than the young prince by a decade or so, kept in a state of sub-hibernation with a combination of starlight and pure frost as sustenance.

And when war arrived on Jötunheim, Loki had been left in a tomb. It is, however, a blessing in the form of forced adaptation. His son now takes easily to Asgard as he would have Midgard, but Harry is careful to monitor his son for any unexpected maladies.

He mirrors the smile in front of him, and touches his forehead to his son's, "Hello, little one. I think you're ready for a playdate later today, aren't you?"

Tiny fingers grasp his thumb, and somewhere, deep within him, he accepts the hardened resolve in protecting the innocent soul in his arms, as well as the others of similar circumstances out there.

Haraldr looks changed for the better, somehow. More… alive than the last time she had seen him, armoured and reluctant for war. He smiles at her, and takes his eyes off her son to ask about how Freyja is. She begins to answer, but her words are cut off when she spots Thor's hands reaching upward.

"Careful, Haral–"the pain sears through his scalp before the warning even registers; the young Prince has a firm grip on his hair. Harry winces at the tear-jerking force that Thor pulls his hair with.

Harry sends a sparkle of seiðr to distract the uncommonly strong infant, and he sighs in relief when his godson releases the iron grip to grasp at the fairy lights, "It astounds me that your fair tresses are in perfect order, my Queen. I fear that my hair will never be as it once was – my Prince has my locks in his hands."

The Queen only laughs, as she allows Loki to wind tiny fingers around her index finger, "Necessity is a good teacher – pain is a lesson that can be learnt in an instant."

"That must be the reason why I've been tasked to carry my godson with you to your halls whilst you hold my son in your arms, my Queen," he manoeuvres Thor into a position facing forward, keeping the tiny yet powerful digits out of reach from his hair.

"A lesson well learnt then – I cannot bring myself to refute your statement, Haraldr. But my handmaidens have expressed a wish to see both of the young ones, and you have gladly acquiesced, have you not?"

Frigga resists the urge to laugh at the disgruntled muttering to her young Prince, and presses a smile into Loki's hair. The walk is peppered with conversation and laughter, which feels surreal after the long period of unrest and battle.

He leaves her with the two children in her hall, Fensalir, with a hand pressed to his heart.

Harry sighs into his goblet. It seems that in his absence, the weeds have begun to grow rampant yet again. The people at this table are the ones who have goaded Odin to declare war solely on in the glorious name of honor, an endeavour to show all the Realms that Asgard reigns supreme in Yggdrasil.

The wartime taxes were only meant to be a temporary move to gather more resources to send the army to war, but now these men at the table want to make it permanent. The disgust that builds still lies hidden, as he watches the greedy lot of men pushing to save their coffers from being used on the very people who have contributed their wealth.

He keeps his silence even as the meeting adjourns, smiling placidly as the men empty the room. Mostly unfamiliar faces, and they think him a figurehead in all political matters. There is an inward sigh when he thinks about the amount of sifting through meaningless trails to leave breadcrumbs for Odin's personal guard to find.

Haraldr returns just as the last of the women are leaving, and Frigga watches Haraldr exchange words with her sister Freyja. Freyja has been worried of late, and Frigga watches as the man manages to coax Freyja to smile. Her sister leaves shortly afterward, leaving Haraldr sending a lingering glance. He cradles his son to his chest, humming an almost-lullaby with his brows furrowed. The strings of seiðr are probing his son, as if searching for… something.

"Is something wrong, Haraldr?"

"No cause for worry, my Queen," a wan smile is shown to her, "He has been especially quiet, I think."

Frigga watches as Loki squirms about in the arms of her confidant, hands reaching upward. Haraldr captures one of his son's hands, and presses a kiss into the tiny palm, apparently satisfied with his son's state of health. Brilliant emerald eyes turn to her, "There was a lady amongst your company that I have not yet seen since today. A handmaiden to my fair sister Freyja, my Queen."

"I think you mean Angrboða. A rare sight, even in my halls. She keeps to herself more often than not, but Freyja is delighted with her talent for weaving clothes with marvellous details."

"I… see, my Queen. I must excuse myself now – my little one grows sleepier, and I must put him to bed if I am to return to the work that awaits the Independent Advisor," Haraldr murmurs, and makes his way out of the chamber.

' _Talented fingers for weaving, indeed_ ', Harry thinks to himself, for the handmaiden Angrboða has woven an admirable disguise over herself and her clothes. Underneath the fair skin and dainty movement, lies the flesh and blood of a living hrímþursar. A skilled weaver of a particular brand of subtle seiðr – underhanded treachery that induces trust and blind loyalty – that is invisible to those incautious.

She holds no more sway over his son than a feeble breeze has sway over a mountain – now that he has severed the beginning threads of a powerful spell on Loki. That does not mean that he will leave her as she is - with hidden motives, Angrboða is too close to Freyja for comfort.

It is one whole week before the prideful Allfather gives in, and summons him to the Shelf of the Slain. Nothing but a petty victory between the two of them though, they are hardly alone in Valaskjálf, so he bows with hand to heart, under watchful and curious gazes as two dire wolves make their way down to him.

Geri and Freki lick his free hand in greeting before returning to their places at the throne, much to his amusement.

"Haraldr. I trust that you have had enough time to present your verdict."

 _A week to investigate a riotous herd of twenty-five is plenty of time indeed_ , is what he wishes to say, but Harry swallows those words bubbling in his mind as he straightens from the bow and retrieves a fold of paper from thin air, "Here is the list."

One of the Allfather's personal guards comes up to him and takes the letter to Odin, and Harry watches the King's expression twisting as his eyes rove down the list. He finds the conclusion without much confusion:

 _The house of Odin is full of traitors._

"Leave us," Odin's command resonates in the hall, and after a stunned silence, all of the guards, courtiers and servants leave. The great doors swing shut with a finality of sorts, and the resonance fades away before the Allfather speaks with barely concealed rage.

"What is the meaning of this, Hjortrson?"

"There are no hidden meanings. My verdict is as it is. Call upon your personal guard to investigate, and the truth will be apparent. Call upon the sons of the House of Odin, and look upon their faces as deceit shadows their eyes and colours their heart."

It does not surprise Harry in the slightest, when the list turns to living flame with a crackle, leaving not even ash in the Allfather's hand. He leaves the Shelf of the Slain with quick steps – it is clear that he does not have to attend any more assemblies hereafter, acting as a watchdog of the King.

 _Who could give water to the King who will not drink of his own accord?_

In theory, he can, but not without breaking both his moral boundaries and the final sanctuary of every person. He _knows_ how it feels like, intimately.

"And here I was, thinking that you had succumbed to some illness on the battlefield."

Harry laughs, "I apologize, brother. I had to accomplish the tasks set for me - I could find no time until now to visit you, Freyr."

"Hah! You should just admit that you prefer the company of women more now. There was a time when you would have gladly spent months with me in the wilderness," Freyr's eyebrows are moving in suggestive ways, and Harry shrugs off the jest.

"That is enough, now."

Freyr looks upon Haraldr's face, which holds just the barest traces of humour. The man looks ragged, and Freyr knows the weight of the war. Freyja has told him about little Loki Haraldson, and how much the babe looks like his father, that there is no news of Loki's mother.

What his brother needs to do is to not constantly think, and the best way is to not talk of matters of the heart. So he prods at Haraldr a little more, building up the inclination to fight. All is forgiven, when the two of them are drenched in sweat and grinning at each other.

Little are the words that need to be said aloud - Freyr will rather know the truths later from his brother than the twisted facts sooner from gossips.

Muninn calls from the perch above his right shoulder, and Odin hears the echoes of a memory within the cawings of his raven named 'memory'.

… _words of advice upon deaf ears..._

… _innocent innocent innocent…_

… _stained with so much blood…_

He has won the war, but at a great cost to the Realm Eternal, and at a great personal cost as well. His once-brother and Advisor has left under the guise of a short training session with one battalion underwing. The raven hops down, and Odin reaches to unfurl the paper grasped in the obsidian talons. The charred paper is a reminder of his naivety and pride. The House of Odin sits on a crumbling cliff, undermined by its own _festering_ progeny.

There is a war inside of him, humility versus pride, and one of them finally triumphs.

He clutches the armrests of the throne and hauls himself to his feet, clenching his teeth against the aches and pains that shudder through his body. The discomfort is a physical consequence from forcibly bending swathes of seiðr to do his bidding. He grips the paper hard, hearing the crinkle under his fingers. The world seems to tilt sideways, a dizzy array of colours.

Odin Allfather stands… and then he falls.

Rúni comes to a crash landing on the ground, barely managing to roll onto his back – the only things that he can control are his eye movements; limbs heavy as lead, his lungs burning as they shudder to herd in breath after breath, heart still pounding faster than the hoofbeats of a galloping horse. His brothers-in-arms are in a similar state, covered in the mud and dirt of Asgard's treacherous mountains, unrecognizable by sight except for the pinpricks of distinctive Asgardian metal detailing shining through the muck.

He has been pushed to his limits for far too many times, and fallen over the edge so many times, only to realise that he is capable of so much more – that they are capable of so much more...

 _"Give up if you wish – with the knowledge that you have already come so far to not reach the end."_

There is a swelling sense of pride in him when Hjortrson looks down at them from his lofty perch on an enormous boulder, also covered in mud but smirking and hardly breathless even though the General himself has led the one-day rush up the mountain.

"Well done. You have bested my challenge, and by my promise, there shall be rewards equal to your pain."

His brothers-in-arms have never looked more similar then; teeth bared in feral smiles and mud splattered armour. That night, they feast on roast boars and the fabled Firewhisky that even the earth-loving Dvergar covet. The high from the revelry remains even during their descent from the mountains, and only falters when the battalion reaches the thick forest.

A ghost bounds over the undergrowth, and there is a brief jolt of panic before Hjortrson calls for calm.

Rúni catches sight of Hjortrson making his way to the front of the now-silent group, untangling vines from Dáinn's impressive antlers before looking at the cervine creature in the eye. His shield-brothers hold their breaths, waiting for their next orders. Hjortrson calls forth one of the section leaders, and murmurs a few words before sweeping himself onto the great white stag and then disappearing into the forest in the direction of Asgard.

"We are to return to Asgard at our best pace, and wait for further orders from Hallvarðr."

He knows what every man in this forest fears - a second war coming fast on the heels of the first. The possibility of war is all too real now, and the mere fear at the revelation shows in the white-knuckled grip around his weapon. They return to the golden city under the day-long smother of apprehension and the hot sun, expecting the worst, but the city markets are bustling as ever. Smiles and shouts are prevalent in the streets.

 _Nothing seems to be wrong._

The palace is a different story – so much so that he can hear the breathing of his fellow soldiers in the hallways. The silence is unsettling, and it reminds him of the all-engulfing snow and frost of the Frost Giants that he has barely escaped from barely two fortnights ago.

 _Everything seems to be wrong._

Harry knows not what to expect at the Palace - Dáinn's link only shows Frigga's worried face and the instructions to fetch Harry. The journey takes a little over one full day on foot, but the travel is cut down to a fraction of the time; with Dáinn dancing weightlessly over the undergrowth in the forest, leaping over the heads of those too slow to get off the paved roads leading to the palace.

The sprint continues all the way to the Royal Chambers, and he dismounts even before the white stag has even begun to slow down. The guards move to open the door for him, and Harry pauses for the tiniest moment before he steps in –

 _for the signs of barely tethered souls_

– only to see the King in Odinsleep. It is not the first time, but no less eerie than seeing the formidable being in a vulnerable state. And this time, it is completely unplanned. The Queen is speaking with Eir, all hushed tones and white-knuckled. The murmurs stop when they spot him, and Harry does not miss the quick squeeze of hands that pass from the Queen to Eir.

There is yet another new divide within them, but he pushes past it, meeting Eir in the eye as she confirms with him regarding the reason for the Allfather's sudden state – the forceful manipulation of power beyond the King's grasp. The conclusion is unspoken, that there is no better solution than to allow the King to recover on his own.

"I am already bound. I do not wish to be confined once again."

He has once again declined the right to be Regent of Asgard, and Frigga watches as Haraldr straightens from his bow, "I have a favor to ask of you, my Queen."

He is the first to perch himself at the window, and when the rest come rushing in, Rúni nearly falls out the window.

"Is he really leaving?"

Their voices are hushed, but from the flicker of green eyes down below, they have already been discovered. The only thing missing from the full war regalia that adorns the General is the helm, and instead of weapons the man holds his son close to his chest.

Frigga watches as Haraldr murmurs words of apologies in his son's hair. The man kisses Loki's forehead before handing his son over to her, "I am truly sorry to burden you with the care of my son, My Queen."

She smiles, "Nonsense. Loki has never given me trouble; he is a sweet child. There is no need for worry, Dáinn will be with him in your stead. Safe travels, Haraldr. "

"I shall take my leave then, and look forward to returning with favourable news."

He is capable, she knows, but it is still unnerving to know that Haraldr is travelling to the remnants of the battleground with nothing more than his own person. She fears that he may never return.

The Gatekeeper stands at the entrance, motionless save for the golden eyes that track Harry's movements.

"You seek passage to the Realm of Ice, Jötunheim."

"You hinder my path, Heimdall."

"You hold… noble intentions, no doubt. But know that there will be no help in time should you require it," it is as good as an open concession that the Gatekeeper does not see all as previously advertised. Snow albedo applies to light and scrying magic, which makes Frost Giants nothing more than blurred figures, even to all-seeing eyes. Heimdall had seen nothing of the rallying of Frost Giants until they had made it to Midgard.

"An escort of soldiers would be no more welcome than me alone," is all he says as Heimdall walks ahead of him to the console.

And then Asgard is but warmth lingering in his memory. The cold is shocking yet again, but the sensation is nothing compared to what squeezes the breath from his lungs.

The land under his feet is _dying_.

It is agonising and beyond torturous, to feel its death. A slow death that will take place over a few thousand millennia and Harry feels sick to his stomach at its creaking and groaning. The Realm struggles to live, for Life, not for itself, but for the million billion souls that live upon it. Each crack on the surface stabs deep into the heart of Jötunheim.

He traverses the white plains, and feels as Jötnar warriors start to trail unseen along with him. They have impressive beasts at their beck and call, but Harry knows not to fear the bite of razor-sharp teeth. Even a starving beast would know better than to bite him; his blood is toxic to nearly every living thing.

Harry walks till frost shards are forged into swords, and warriors are prepared to die in order to defend the lives of their people. He waits there, settled on a snowdrift, back to a solid ice wall. Slowly his Jötun escorts make themselves known, dusting snow off the ice-blue of their skin.

It is not a long wait – the location that he has picked is on the outskirts of the settlement where Laufey is located. The voice of glaciers crumbling and crushing ice floes is unmistakable, "You have stolen something of mine, Bringer of Death."

 **Notes:**

 **Well now. Surely you've noticed the auxiliary characters (Hallvarðr, Eir, soldiers) now. They belong in my head, and do not exist in mythology or commercial enterprises. Well, Eir does come from Nordic mythology, but there is practically no information that I can get on her from my internet sources.**

 **And to reply all those who are clamouring for Avengers and Marvel movie action… this is not the place. The fic is slow-going for the moment, at least to previous written chapters (twelve). I'm not going to keep hopes up by promising anything, and I will not apologise over the fact that I'm keeping the entire plot to myself. But I have stuff queued on my tumblr - bits of writing that as sneaks and stuff that will never see the light of day here.**

 **The main plot is more or less decided on, which leaves the writing and the filling of plot holes. I am pretty sure that I will be picking up ideas as I go along, either from reviews or what not (movies, TV, songs). I am fiddling around with a totally unrelated drabble (of sorts) featuring many characters, but that, as they say, is still in the conceptual stages.**

 **Additional notes on Thirteen Steps into the Heart of Darkness:**

 **I forgot this thing. Better late than never if I post it here. People rarely see themselves as a villain. Heith, Odin, Eir. All of them had their own justifications for doing the things they did. Eir was tasked with supplying her King with information on Heith and Haraldr (as everyone in the story know him as).**

 **The** _ **thing**_ **between Eir and Haraldr is particularly complicated because Heith made use Eir's nature and feelings. Eir unwittingly fed him poison which she thought was a supplement (also a love potion) of sorts, and since Harry didn't show signs of the intended effect, the dose was escalated to the point that Eir nearly died from ingesting the food she'd dosed.**

 **Which triggered a post-traumatic attack in Harry. And the whole 'taking advantage' fiasco by Odin. Also, the back-and-forth awkwardness all around.**

 **I know; sometimes ikki's brain is too happening and is handing out free psychosis all around.**

 **As always, your words are the ones that keep mine going.**

 **This is ikki, over and out.**


	8. Chapter 7

_A writer, I would fancy myself, if things could be. But take note, I do not write for others – I write for my own amusement, and my brand of storytelling is my own – I only share these worlds that I dream up._

 _"Personality has power to uplift, power to depress, power to curse, and power to bless."_

 _ **Paul Harris**_

He watches as the ice grows under his fingers. Another tiny embellishment on his makeshift throne, crude in its construction - a far cry from the original mastercraft produced by several generations of kings before him - but the discomfort he has crafted suits him. It forces him to ponder, and his thoughts of late have been nothing more than that of crystalline ice; pure and unsullied and blissfully devoid of the shadows of insanity and fingers of paranoia. It no longer feels like he is being pushed to the brink, it feels like –

he has just woken from an unending nightmare

\- one of his soldiers slips out from a thin wall of ice, and Laufey turns his attention to the Jötnar, who clasps one hand to the other elbow in a slight bow.

" _Anur_ ," the respect in the warrior's voice is a slight sting, because Laufey has led so many of his people to their deaths, and many more still march to their deaths, if only on slower and tortuous paths. And even as all of them die their slow deaths, they look at him with reverence.

"He comes," the two words are whispered, like a death knell before the icicles begin their killing descent from the high ceilings of the Underground. It is infinitely more than an inkling that he knows what the warrior means, but Laufey hopes against the instant association that comes to mind.

"Who do you speak of?"

"The one… who performed the rites of Skaði in her absence."

Laufey sets off immediately into the blizzard without a word.

The journey is unnervingly short - right at the entrance to where his people have sought refuge. He briefly considers an immediate attack, but maybe a drawn out confrontation will allow the civilians to flee. The infamous intruder sits close to the encampment of the Jötnar warriors, seemingly uncaring of the half-circle comprised of frost-hounds and their handlers. He waves off all of his men – there is no need for any more of his people to die if the Allfather has sent for his head to make a statement against further rebellion.

The snow falls relentlessly, and yet the puny man is unhindered by the snowflakes, black and green leather armour spotlessly dark against the snow. Aside from keeping his back against solid ice, he shows an infuriating nonchalance of sorts, and Laufey makes his presence known, "You have stolen something of mine, Bringer of Death."

Sable hair flutters along with movement, and Laufey watches as the man unfolds himself before bending forward in what seems to be a symbolic gesture. And then he speaks, with a voice that reminds Laufey of melting frost; soft and lilting, "They call me Haraldr Hjortrson, Great Father. Much is stolen from those involved in war – life, innocence, dreams… hope – and I fear that the war has stolen much from your people,"

Laufey would have expected a more ominous name, for one so well versed in the nuances of Jötunheim's dialect, and if the words of the surviving warriors are true, Hjortrson is well acquainted with the rituals surrounding their dead. The rumours and hearsay are enough to stay himself from relaxing in the man's presence, though Hjortson speaks in the Jötnar dialect, where the words and meanings are stiff in their pronunciation, and difficult to manipulate.

"Stolen much _indeed_ – Asgard holds the heart of Jötunheim in one hand, and our neck in the other. Who is to say that the Allfather does not wish to end us for good?" Laufey comments, watching as the raven-haired man considers the ice-blade forming on his hand. He is different from the Ӕsir that Laufey has had the… pleasure of meeting so far, who have by far insisted on using their own manipulative tongues. Haraldr Hjortrson, by his statement, is at least truthful, despite the latent coils of power that surround the greens and blacks, poised to strike any second, like the rime serpents deep in the caverns.

"I cannot return the Casket of Ancient Winters – but I hope that the grievous hurt done to the Heart of the Realm will be assuaged with this offering, meagre as it is."

It is a bold declaration, for someone who has allegiances to the other side of the war that has so recently ravaged the lands of his forefathers, and Laufey pauses to watch as the man draws a dagger. It gleams as bright as it sings; obviously from Dvergar make.

The negotiations - if it ever was one - have failed. Laufey readies his blade, only to fall short when Hjortrson cuts at his own wrist with an ornate knife, and Laufey watches with equal portions of nausea and intrigue when the man pulls tendrils of ice-blue from it.

 _It is devastatingly familiar, like something from a nightmare._

 _There are memories now –_

 _of his father hacking away in the deepest caverns of their Realm,_

 _pulling free writhing tendrils and placing them within a box made from_

 _the bones of his ancestors –_

 _the Casket of Ancient Winters._

He snatches more blue from thin air, the very air turning icier, weaving them into the fabric. The threads are woven, along with the snow that falls endlessly in Jötunheim. There is a net of writhing tendrils between Hjortrson's fingers now. And then, everything within Laufey's senses is caught between a moment and an eternity as Hjortrson pulls the weaves tight.

Something solidifies. And the light disappears.

There is an unidentified pang of _grief_ and _loss_ in his heart when Hjortrson looks into his eyes and apologises once more for 'stealing' something of his, but it dances away just as quick. The sense of loss disappears forever, when the tiny man presses something into his hands. Haraldr Hjortrson's hands are like that of ice itself, but there is a sensation that sears into his flesh for the fraction of a moment.

Laufey looks down, but there are no burns on either the pale snow of Asgardian flesh or the blue of his own skin. There is a sphere in his hands, pale like the Jötunheim moon, and just as cold as the light that falls on the snowscape. The energy of it is akin to the Casket of Ancient Winters, and yet instead of the thunderous madness that the Casket roars, it sings softly. But it captivates him like no other - the voice is familiar, heartbreakingly so.

 _It sings of the renewal that the ice brings._

 _Of the white that blankets the world that Laufey has always known._

 _Of a prince of the land where cold comes down in a sheets of light, lost in war._

 _And in between the weaves… there is a hidden chord, of hopes for the future._

Laufey finds himself unable to look away from the strange object long after the sorcerer leaves in a flurry of snow. Even the harsh shifting of the ice seems to calm at the odd lullaby, as Laufey treads deep into the underground caves.

He has loved that voice ever since he was a Prince making his own way through the farthest reaches of his own lands.

Death is at edge of his vision, showing him the way.

Exhaustion clings to the very marrow of his bones, even as Harry pulls the fabric of the world even closer to bolster his magical core. The threads slip away quick. He has difficulty in remembering the last time that he has invested so much of his magical core; erasing Laufey's last memories of Loki was cakewalk – compared to the fabrication of the Muggle equivalent of a pacemaker for an entire Realm. One eternity away, and still aiding him with her knowledge was his memory of Hermione, her stinging lecture on the medical advancements had given him an idea of what to do with the sliver of the Casket's power still lingering in his veins.

All of it has been off the cuff, and Harry is beginning to feel the effects of his impulsiveness far too fast. Heimdall answers his whispered call with split-second reflexes, which betrays the Gatekeeper's investment in his safety.

"Haraldr Hjortrson. You are... well," Harry senses more surprise than fact in the Gatekeeper's monotone statement.

"How… many days has it been, Gatekeeper?"

"Nearly six," is the clipped answer. There is a polished sheen to Heimdall's armour, and Harry feels his gut clench instinctively.

"How long has it been since the Allfather awoke?" The Gatekeeper does not lie, and Harry has long figured out the art of prying the answers that he needs from all sorts of reluctant lips. He does not have the ability to skim the Gatekeeper's mind right now, but he knows the patterns well enough.

"Two."

"When is the Army to be dispatched?"

"By daybreak."

"Cancel the orders to storm Jötunheim," is the last thing that Harry manages to force out before gravity takes over when his muscles fail.

A voice sings overhead, as fingers trace his wrist. They weave and bind, sealing the wound shut. He feels the change almost immediately – the magic begins to circulate weakly within his body, instead of leaking out of his wrist. His core feels the echoes of the Weapons Vault so much more clearly, a beacon to his depleted reserves. The siren call is a terrible thing; those failed Hallows have destroyed the very things they were meant to protect.

The voice continues, singing of the sadness of reunion, and Harry sighs with relief when fingers smooth the hair back from his forehead.

He knows that he could have died, had he still been mortal.

He sinks back into oblivion, drifting along with the song made of heartbreak.

Sleep does not come easy, although the potential for war has been averted. Asgard's Shadow General remains in a healing coma, unresponsive to the world. The conclusion to the war remains in Haraldr's words - even Heimdall is unsure of the events that have transpired in the world of frost and snow.

Dáinn glows in the moonlight, a silent cervine sentinel standing guard over his master. The stag moves to the other side of the bed as Eir draws a chair over to the bedside. His face is calm, and suddenly she sees the man that she had first seen. Battered and broken - he is now weakened and frozen. All too familiar and different at the same time.

His hands are still cold, as she lifts his hand against her cheek. Her heart leaps when his finger twitches, and then thunders a racing rhythm when a grimace shows upon his face. The large stag nudges and licks at Haraldr, and Eir lets go to avoid the sharp points of the antlers.

Dáinn pauses all of a sudden, allowing his master to secure a grip on his antlers before hauling the man into a sitting position. Eyes open, and green meets her gaze. Eir cannot think of anything to say, and her lungs have no breath left in them.

She seems to be watching from a million steps away as he gazes at her, all pale-faced and dark eye bags, "I heal fast."

The echoes die, and she falls toward him with tears flooding her eyes.

The dawn has yet to break, and he gently untangles Eir's fingers from his hand. She has finally fallen into deep sleep, so he lifts her into the bed. Dáinn shuffles restlessly now that he is awake and out of bed, and lends him the use of his antlers and shoulders like a crutch.

Frigga waits for Haraldr to make his way to the Chambers that she and her husband share. The man is leaning heavily on his cervine familiar, but there is a will stronger than Dvergar steel in reflected in his eyes - she cannot refuse him entry to his son.

She turns and he follows, not a single word traded between. She watches as he sweeps a hand across her son's brow, before picking Loki up. There are lips pressed against the soft curls of Loki's hair, and she imagines there to be unspoken words of apology from father to son.

It is a brief eternity before he moves again, and the softness of his eyes make a statement of gratitude - he knows that she would have adopted his son as her own had he perished in Jotunheim. He leaves the chamber with a white stag by his side and silent footsteps.

A pulse of paradoxical _cold warmth_ jolts him up, and it seeps into him, soothing his empty core. His eyes search for the source, and finds it just as fast.

It is easy to forget that his son is no ordinary infant, looking at his physical form. But like it or not – and he detests the fact – Harry knows that his son has been sequestered in that damnable room for years. He is thankful for the natural resilience of children, because it seems that children have no difficulty in making the most of everything, whereas any adult would have despaired.

 _Far worse than the cupboard under the stairs_

Harry turns his eyes to look at the large emeralds blinking back at him, before smiling and kissing Loki's forehead, "Such a precious son of mine," before coaxing Loki back into sleep and falling back into slumber himself. He barely registers Dáinn clambering onto the bed beside him, welcome warmth against his back.

It seems that between years spent within the walls and half-light of the cavernous underground prison, Loki has learnt how to grasp miniscule wisps of seiðr.

He has never held a sentry position in the palace as of today, but all men experienced in the art of combat have been called to duty, and have been on standby since the night before. The army should have been deployed by daybreak at the latest, if the words whispered were to be true.

He straightens when he sees the Grand Advisor - he is trying to condition himself not to think of him as the Shadow General - and is awed at the sight of him. Seemingly close to death and depleted of nearly all his strength, but the man carries with him an intimidating aura, more so than usual. A glance and tilt of the head is all the acknowledgement he gets, but it is more than expected.

The room goes silent when the man enters the hall, and then the doors are shut, taking all the sounds within with it as Rúni takes up position outside.

It is of rare occasion that a son of Vanaheim has been allowed in this hall, and he expects grave tidings; one week ago, his brother had marched alone into the Frost Realm. The heaviness of his worry vanishes when he sees Haraldr walk through those doors.

The room quiets when Haraldr walks in, and Freyr is reminded once again of Haraldr's versatility in the projection of his personae. There is no trace of his treasured companion now - just the personification of intimidation itself.

The session begins with a dozen questions imposed over each other, but the meaning is clear; that Jötunheim should be given a last lesson to ensure that no Jötnar will ever think of rising up against Asgard.

Haraldr's voice is quiet, and yet it quells the tumultuous mix of voices, "The Frost Realm shall be left alone."

The rest of the room rises to object with Hjortrson's assertions that Jötunheim be left alone, only to be silenced by a wave of his hand. His words pierce the silence, "If there are any more objections to my recommendations, I will bring you to Jötunheim myself. You will see that I tell no lies," there is a pointed edge to his closing words, and the sharpness of his threat lingers long after the sound does.

Odin looks on as the meeting ends – mercifully short as it is when Hjortrson attends, gifted with pulling conclusions out of everyone before they realise it – and all leave the room. The man that Odin knows is there; it is just that the man that stands before him has been irrevocably changed – not that he has never stopped evolving – but there is a sense of purpose to him that has never been truly present before the War in the Frost.

Haraldr clasps Freyr's shoulder in greeting, and there are no words exchanged before Freyr too leaves the room with the others, leaving Haraldr with Odin.

 _It is finally over_ , Harry thinks to himself, as he steps onto the Observatory floor under Heimdall's watchful eyes.

Eylir trots along the Asbrú, and Harry basks in the light of the morning Asgardian sun; having endured the cold and the dark for far longer than his liking. The journey back to the palace is a relatively quick one though the streets are crowded with traffic – his secondary mount has finally become agreeable to the temporary bridges woven out of seiðr that he can conjure now.

He leaves Eylir with the stable hands, and makes his way to the side gardens that lead to the palace, only to stop. The King and Queen of Asgard are in the gardens, sharing a moment.

Harry hesitates in his steps, and summarily loses all of his stealth when two of his men approach him from the opposite end of the garden. "Haraldr, you have returned," Frigga's smile is a familiar thing, and so is Odin's questioning gaze.

"Your Royal Highnesses," he acknowledges them with the customary hand gestures, "I am glad to report that the negotiations have been concluded."

Rúni fidgets under his gaze, which in turn causes a nervous tick in his partner Volstagg. Harry ignores it for the time being and continues, "The Dökkálfar extend their congratulations to Asgard, belated as they are, and have hinted at willingness to trade under a more… comprehensive agreement." Odin relaxes at the modicum of good news from the Dark Elves, and Harry turns towards the armoured duo.

"Report."

"All is well on the patrols, Master Hjortrson," is all Volstagg is willing to say, with a pointed glance at Rúni.

Rúni fidgets under the Grand Advisor's piercing gaze, and Volstagg fights the urge to smash his own head against the wall at the dead giveaway. His partner is shrinking under the attention of the man that Rúni practically idolises as a hero, and Volstagg himself balks at the idea of delivering the bad news to their General.

There can never be a good way to report that one has lost his superior's offspring for the umpteenth time in his three day diplomatic stay in the hospitality of the Dark Elves.

Haraldr Hjortrson smiles warmly at that moment and Volstagg cannot help but feel the jolt of surprise and horror when the man comments absentmindedly, "It appears as though my misplaced son is on his way here."

"Father!"

There is the thrum of hoof beats on the stone, and Volstagg knows what is coming towards the small party at frightening speed – a magnificent white stag by the ominous name of Death, and a little mite of a boy hanging from the all-too impressive rack of antlers. Dáinn slows down, stopping three steps shy of Hjortrson's back, and the white horns that seemingly sprout out of Hjortrson's head is eerie.

And despite the number of times he has seen the transition of Hjortrson from intimidating General to loving father, Volstagg cannot help but stare at the display. He cannot deny that it assuages a tiny part of his pride, to have been bested by a three year old child - at hide and seek, no less– but only because the father of that child is a master of far too many things to name. It is just as well that the General forgets the issue of their failure as guards to his son – Haraldr Hjortrson has the uncanny ability to pick punishments, and Volstagg does not fancy being deprived of the delirious burn that Firewhisky provides.

Loki watches as his father dismisses the two men before turning on his feet with a wicked grin. He allows his father to pluck him from Dáinn's horns as soon as the men leave, and Loki squeals with laughter and thrill when he is swung around in dizzying circles. His father growls playfully at his ear, "My son, I think that Rúni and Volstagg would be thankful if you did not subject them to a game of hide and seek with them without informing them."

Loki looks to Dáinn, who merely gives a nonchalant flicking of his ears.

The Allfather clears his throat, and Loki watches from his father's arms as the King reminds his father to report the details of the diplomatic trip. Loki frowns at the command; it means that there will be little time to spend with his father today. The Allfather spares no time in exiting from the gardens, but Queen Frigga gives him and his father a wink and a smile before trailing behind her husband.

They continue their previous conversation with Loki wrinkling his nose at his father, "But there is nothing to do when you're away now. Everything is boring."

His father laughs, "But still, that is no grounds to lead the army under my command on a panicked sweep of the palace. I don't think that the men have recovered from seeing you hanging out the window from Dainn's antlers in a bid to escape them, Loki."

Loki giggles.

The smile turns to a thoughtful frown then, "Though boredom truly sounds like a terrible fate to be subjected to," and Loki nods along, "and since ' _everything_ ' is so horridly boring, it seems that there is no longer any need for the Svartálfar curiosities that I've picked for you. Such a waste," his father exclaims, only to laugh again when Loki protests.

He doesn't fume on the way back; his father thinks it adorable that he sulks. The silent apology is accepted in the form of riding on his father's shoulder, as Loki talks about Thor's latest successful attempt in breaking into the Weapons Vault, followed by the spectacular failure in raiding its contents, which has resulted in the young Prince being confined to the Royal Chambers for a day.

The report is plain; factual and dry, glossing over most of the events that have happened in the hospitality of the Dark elves, and detailed only in the aspect of matters pertaining to the trading capabilities of the Dökkálfar. There are many things that have happened since his discovery of a seemingly abandoned vessel orbiting around Svartálfheim ten decades ago, and it is only now that it has borne fruit - Asgard has gained an invisible ally in the newly crowned Queen Aflyse.

Harry reads the letter aloud for Loki's benefit - who can now manage reading simple passages, but is not quite ready to do so in front of an audience until he becomes better at it - who lies curled in his lap. His son peers at the words for a moment longer before letting Dáinn play courier; his familiar enjoys bounding down the hallways of stone, much to the amusement of the domestic help and to the annoyance of the guards. Loki fiddles with a smooth rock, watching as the tiny Svartálfarian charms etched on one side turns the smooth grey into a mirrored surface.

His son has been exceptionally well-behaved, and Harry retrieves a few pieces of jaggery from his stash to reward Loki. Green eyes peek from beneath dark curls as tiny fingers grasp a small piece of candy from Harry's hand, "Father, what is Svartálheim like?"

Loki watches as his father's head tilts, considering the question, and then listens, spellbound as his father hums and gesticulates. The seemingly effortless weave of seiðr draws stories and tells pictures, and Loki revels in this display of seiðr, a secret between only the two of them.

He sees his father's journey down the World Tree, flying past Ratatoskr, to a dark world.

He sits there, flanked by his father's arms, warmed by the magic, and watches. Watches as the magic paints the darkness of Svartálfheim, and imposes the pitch black of Dökkálfar skin upon it. The seiðr sets glowing eyes into their faces, and adorns manes of silvery blonde. Loki sees that they are polar opposites to the underground dwelling Dvergar who have pale skin and dark hair.

His father paints visions of cramped tunnels that lead to breathtakingly wide spaces - he thinks it to be the star-studded skies, but he realises that he is wrong - they are caverns, all conceivable surfaces covered by strange sorts of tiny creatures, which all have one thing in common: they glow. Through the gleaming tunnels they eventually reach the heart of one of the Svartálfar cities, and Loki sees a different sort of world compared to Asgard, where the combined light of Asgard's sun and shimmering stars is so dissimilar from Svartálfar's constant twilight made of the light from glowing lifeforms.

And where the pride of the Dvergar lies in the exquisite metalwork of armour and weapons, the Dökkálfar have their own - skilled manipulation of the senses and the mind, and deeply dark magics that taint even the natural sheen of seiðr .

Loki sees as his father lowers his lips to the knuckles of Queen Aflyse in greeting, and watches as the people all gather round a table to talk -

There is a bang that rattles the door outside, and while his father answers the door Loki remains in the chair, looking at the traces of the weave as it falls apart on its own. The story is riveting, but Loki is glad as the session is interrupted by Thor banging on the large doors – the Dark Elf with the half-face makes him feel uncomfortable.

Thor is practically vibrating with energy, an energy that is obviously contagious to Dáinn. Harry sends a sliver of reprimand through the link, and watches as his familiar shakes off the energy obediently.

"Guðfaðirinn," the four year old shouts, having remembered his manners in greeting, but sadly lacking in propensity for keeping conversational tones. Harry tries to imagine the Allfather having such eagerness during childhood, but his imagination falls short – it is much easier to believe that the Allfather has never had a childhood.

"Hello, my prince," he replies his godson in a softer tone, "I was under the impression that you were to be confined to your chambers for a day."

"I escaped," is Thor's exclamation, grinning widely as if it is an act worthy of commendation, and Harry feels the urge to face-palm, and then hunt down and stick semi-permanent silence spells on the men who have been feeding the young Prince stories of adventure. There are half-sketched plans in his head, for Thor to be the proximity trigger for such spells when he finishes his attempt to impress upon the young blonde about receiving a meted punishment in its entirety, but those are purely theoretical.

The most that Harry can do is to replace Thor's babysitter-bodyguards with someone more reliable, and then reinforce – or rather, Thor-proof – the areas against the young Prince's mischief. He gathers his son and his godson, who does not look the least bit remorseful, and sets off for Frigga's halls. He can attempt his own brand of discipline, but his actions are merely one against the many who dote upon the Crown Prince of Asgard.

"We have visitors," Frigga declares to her handmaidens with a smile. The visitors are frequent ones, and all of them get ready for the group of three and one stag.

Thor and Loki run ahead with Dáinn while Harry walks at his own pace. All three are egging each other to reach the end of the hall first, but Loki stops about a quarter of the way and doubles back to walk with him. Dáinn is slightly ahead of Thor, giving the little one the hope that he can win the white stag.

There are tiny fingers that press into his own, and Harry smiles and savors the tiny peaceful moments.

 **Two more weeks until this story becomes a year old, but I'm afraid that there just isn't good news in the books. Too much has been on my plate lately - I'm not giving excuses or anything: Transliterations started as a fun project, now it gives me undue stress. I won't say more, but maybe I'll find the drive to continue tapping on the keyboard soon.**

 **Regards,**

 **ikki**


	9. Interlude 2

**Interlude: Reign of Chaos**

 _When the General is away, the soldiers do not play, because chaos reigns._

 _a few months before the halfway point in chapter 6._

 _In which Loki is nearly three._

 **Day 6: The General's Return**

Sigmarr is new to the armies of Asgard - it is a vast place with too many faces to name. But in the business of swords and shields, there are a few faces that one cannot forget, if they wish to remain as Asgardian soldiers serving the kingdom.

Haraldr Hjortrson is one of them.

He is a man of many titles - the kitchen staffs call him _Master Hjortrson_ or _Master Haraldr_ in fond tones, for reasons that Sigmarr cannot fathom, for the man is as genial as a five-fanged _linnormr_. The Court calls him _Grand Advisor_ to his face, and then _Shadow General_ to his back. There are some who swear that the man lives by his word, and that the Dvergar call him _Silvertongue_ because of that very quality of his. The great Freyr has once been known to describe the man as _a brother in everything but blood._

The graceful Queen of Asgard and the healers address him as _Haraldr_ , smiles always present on their faces. The Allfather calls him by either his given name or his heritage, sometimes both at once, and hearsay states that once upon a time, Odin Allfather has addressed Haraldr Hjortrson as _brother._

But now, as Sigmarr races through the hallways of the castle, part of his mind is trying to find the best terms of address to spare himself and maybe most of the battalion from the General's wrath.

They should all probably beg for forgiveness when Hjortrson returns.

There it is. A flash of white. Rúni inches closer, where Dáinn is looking out the window.

 **Day 6: Return to Asgard**

Volstagg has been told repeatedly, so much that he knows the words to heart, that he has joined the illustrious ranks of the battalion under the command of the famed General.

It is true, that the man is great as they say. He does not put on airs; candid and forthcoming, rightfully earning all the respect that Volstagg and his fellow shield-brothers have to offer through _shared_ hardships – Volstagg has never known of any superior officers who have plodded through mud and dirt and ash alongside their subordinates. He treats them well whenever he can, and gives them no reason to spare effort in their work.

Ultimately, it is that sense of selflessness that brings one half of an entire army battalion into stuttering fools and the other half into babbling idiots when Volstagg and a small number of fellow warriors – serving as Haraldr Hjortrson's personal security detail – return with the General.

It is not easy, to be a disappointment to the expectations of Haraldr Hjortrson.

 **Day 1: Muspelheim**

Harry allows a furrow to come between his brow when the fire-demon envoy brings the request of King Surtr to Asgard. The shaky bilateral relations between the gold of Asgard and the other Realms is nothing new, but Muspelheim is the first of the Realms that has specifically requested Haraldr Hjortrson as an answering diplomat to follow the envoy on his return journey back to the home of Flame itself.

He adjourns to the adjoining rooms with the King and Queen and a select few guards, pondering his options all the while. The decision is to be quick – fire-demons are an excitable race if word is true, and have never been exceptional masters in controlling their flames – before something close to fiendfyre breaks out.

There is the option of refusal, but Harry cannot do so without offending the sovereign of a realm of _fire demons_. He is unable to leave Loki in the Queen's care, no matter how much she insists that it is no burden to her; she is due for a visit to Vanaheim with Lady Freya and the Lord Freyr in the next few days, and Thor is more than a handful at his age, even for Frigga and her handmaidens.

And yet he cannot bring Loki to the sheer firestorm that is Muspelheim; the general consensus is that children are meant to be taken care of by mother, nursemaids and the general female population, of which Harry himself is the sole exception.

To go or to refuse… it is a dilemma that has to be solved in a matter of minutes.

He steps forward only once, but that is enough to bring the immediate attention of the room to him. He keeps his tone deferential, "If I may be permitted to voice a suggestion."

"I am all ears, Skárison," is all his General says, and he cannot help but think that Hjortrson uses the strangest turns of phrase sometimes.

The intention stumbles out, and Skárison does not recall much of the original sentence that spills from his lips, only that his case is made through the fact that many of his fellow brothers in arms are not unfamiliar with taking care of young children, and that Loki is not shy of the soldiers under Hjortrson.

"Perhaps that is the solution to solve the problem, and more," is the response. But there is a twinkle in the man's eye, and Skárison feels the steady beat of his heart take a tumble.

The emotion is raw and alien - he knows of it, but he has never been allowed such had been a brief flare of pride from the recognition that Hjortrson affords him, but he tamps it down and forgets about it before they exit the privacy of the small chamber.

Only the minorities of eldjötun feel marginally comfortable in semi-solid forms, and Calor is not one of them. The air is sticky and damp to his transfigured skin, and the oddities that pass for aesthetic decorations are alien to his people – those are merely fuel to his flame-body, as most things that are not pure metal or rock are.

He briefly ponders, and then shudders at the sheer magnificence of Asgard, set aflame, a pleasant thought that is quickly disrupted by the Grand Advisor of Asgard descending the steps from behind the throne.

"Envoy Calor," Hjortrson addresses him, "I seek your understanding in that our departure to your home realm is to be delayed for three hours – there are matters that I shall have to attend to while my men prepare for their journey."

It is not an impossible request, so Calor agrees.

The arrangements go swimmingly well, and Harry cannot help but feel a mounting apprehension of sorts, even though his men have voiced their confidence in childcare (he is still a little sceptical), and Loki has tentatively understood that his father will have to be away for a few days. He consoles himself with the fact that Dáinn will be an able guardian if anything untoward happens.

The men that he is taking with him are the most inexperienced of the lot, and Harry knows that they have not yet ventured past the follow-all-orders stage, and will not have enough honed instincts to lash out at shadows with sharpened blades.

He shakes his head of the errant thoughts about all the things that could go wrong, and makes his way to the room that the envoy is currently waiting in – he is disadvantaged in the matters of the Muspelheim Courts, and it is time to use his unfair advantages to learn more from Calor.

The Grand Advisor is as the rumors say - like an unquenchable flame, firm and unyielding if he so wished. The Advisor has finished his business in a fraction of the requested time, and spends the rest of it playing gracious host to Calor as Asgardian soldiers scramble to get their preparations finished.

The drink is exquisite, living up to its name as 'Firewhisky', burning and soothing as it flows downward. He tells Hjortrson so, staring into eyes as green as flames born of copper. He basks under the eyes of the famed General, likening himself to a magnificent flame mesmerizing a feral animal.

The next two hours pass in a pleasant blur, until his flames burn up the alcohol that he has consumed. Calor pauses at the realization when his sobriety returns – _has Haraldr Hjortrson always conversed with him with the nuances of the eldjötnar tongue?_ – but the thought is brushed away when the Advisor's men report that the travel preparations are complete.

Calor cannot wait to return to the land of his birth.

Volstagg hefts the satchel of supplies onto his shoulder and winces at the weight. It is a necessary burden, unless the General can conjure up food and drink from the molten wasteland that is Muspelheim.

There are five mouths to feed on this journey, and Volstagg hopes that they will not be spending more than a few days in the hospitality of a Realm that is barren of water and food. They have made good time in the preparations for the unexpected journey to the fiery Realm, and even have time to check their load twice over.

Volstagg volunteers himself to inform Hjortrson and Envoy Calor of their readiness to travel. The mouthwatering smell of Firewhisky lingers heavily in the room when he is permitted to enter, and Hogun does not comment on the glassy-eyed state of envoy Calor as Hjortrson winks at him.

They set off with the blessings of the King and Queen of Asgard, and Volstagg spots young Loki somewhere in between armour and leather. They leave with the well wishes of the rest of the battalion, and curiously enough, those of the kitchen staffs. Calor leaps onto his impressive saurian mount, Hjortrson on the giant of a stag Dáinn, and the rest of them on regular Asgardian steeds.

The journey to the Asbrú is quick, and Calor moves into the observatory first while the rest of them dismount - the horses will not survive in the fire. Their General speaks then, "Place your bags here," and they comply, watching as he sweeps his hand over the pile of supplies, gesturing for them to pick the bags up after. His brother in arms overbalances while attempting to lift his satchel and Volstagg lifts his with trepidation and then wonderment when the bag weighs as much as it is when it is empty.

He checks them; the bags are still filled with their rations and equipment, and Hjortrson returns their questioning glances with a tilt of his head, "You are on a diplomatic mission as my subordinates, not pack mules."

He then sends the white stag down the Asbrú, but there is no time for Volstagg to ask further questions – Muspelheim awaits.

Calor steps through the shimmering veil, and so do the rest of them.

 **Day 1: Missing**

Loki sighs into Lifa's shoulder, breathing in the scent of freshly baked pies - Iðunn's apples have been a plentiful harvest, Lifa tells him. He won't be permitted more than a slice, he knows, because too much of the apple will interfere with his growth.

Loki takes in another lungful of pastry-scented air, and frowns; there is no magic that tingles his tongue.

He misses his father already.

They follow the diplomatic party with their eyes until they vanish down the curvature of the road, and Rúni sighs a little in disappointment at not having the chance to go with the great General.

He turns around to look at his fellow brothers and their questing motions, only to feel his heart turn to stone and descend into the depths of his stomach when he hears the panic in someone's voice, "Where's young Loki?"

There has never been a poorer start to the day.

The first consensus that all of them had come to was to _not_ call out Loki's name. Heads would roll if it was discovered that the son of the Shadow General was _missing_ as soon as Haraldr Hjortrson had left.

Sigmarr sighs and continues his search _-_ there would be a banner of shame upon them all if one battalion was unable to find a _single_ child, son of a general or not.

 **Day 2: Hard Travel**

The lizard-like mount squirms under him, and Volstagg sees its head turn to regard him with one beady eye. There is an eerie sort of intelligence in them, and Volstagg has already narrowly avoided its sneaky attempts of trying to knock him into something hot and fiery enough to melt even Ӕsir flesh to bone.

The General falls back a little, and smacks the nose of Volstagg's mount with a glare. The beast lowers its head, and Volstagg watches in disbelief as it actually submits to the General. The General moves forward once again, to engage the envoy in conversation. Only Calor and Hjortrson have total control of their mounts, it seems.

"Word has it that you are a formidable man, Grand Advisor," Calor starts the probing now, comfortable in his own skin of flame.

"Words and hearsay are easily embellished, Envoy Calor. I merely do what is necessary by the Realm Eternal," is all that Harry says to deflect the fire demon. He knows what Calor is doing, after having skimmed the envoy's mind.

"The Dvergar give their praise sparingly, and Muspelheim has heard of your reputation through them. We supply the fires of stars to them, and your name comes up often. They have gifted you with the name of _Silvertongue_ , and neither you nor I can deny what that means."

Harry slams the urge to grimace - the sons of Ivaldi have taken their debt to him too far. It is a badge of honor when one is gifted with a nickname, but _silver_ is an exceptionally treasured metal in the dwarven mines. And where his name is concerned, it means 'one who is upright in word and deed'.

Perhaps, just perhaps, the late Ivaldi has brought him more trouble than help.

Even by the agile saurian mounts, the journey is long, and Volstagg is wilting from the ever-present heat and smoke that closes on him from all sides. The ensorcelled waterskin that all of them have has been provided by the General, and Volstagg sips periodically from the endless supply of ice melt.

They are nearing the boundaries of King Surtr's palace, if Calor is to be believed. It is not easy to refute that statement - the streams of lava bursting out from soot-black rock are plentiful, and the heat grows even more stifling.

They crest the large hill, and Volstagg realises that this is _indeed_ the ideal home for a eldjötun King - a mountain of a volcano _spews_ thick black smoke into the sky.

 **Day 2: Fun Games**

The soldiers seem to be playing a fun game, it seems. Thor watches as they mutter to themselves and search the strangest of places, and cannot decide if they are searching for a place to hide something unusual or searching for something that has been placed somewhere unusual.

"My prince!" someone calls out to Thor, and Thor turns to look at a red-faced soldier, "Do you know where young Haraldrson is?"

Oh. Hide-and-seek with Loki. It will be a difficult game, Thor thinks. Loki is nearly impossible to find, and only a few in Asgard know where to find Loki. His mother and her handmaidens, Lord Freyr, Lifa, just to name a few, but the soldier before him is not likely to know most of them in familiarity.

"The only people who _always_ know where Loki is are Guðfaðirinn and Dáinn, and I can only ever find Loki when he is with them, " Thor says, and watches as the splotchy red turns pale.

Oh. _Oh, the Norns_. Rúni feels the blood drain from his face and his knees go weak - there is the possibility that Loki has stowed himself in the bulging satchels of his brothers in arms headed for the Palace of Flame.

Sigmarr feels too sick for a meal, but his shield brothers drag him down to the feasting halls nonetheless. Rúni pauses for a moment, because he cannot believe his eyes; Loki and Dáinn are at the main table, the sable-haired imp eating with relish while his cervine caretaker noses at a plate of greens.

Were the boy any other man's son, he would have strung Loki up for a lesson.

Tonight, two children sleep in the bed of her firstborn. Haraldr's son is tiny compared to her own, the former curled up into a ball while Thor takes up most of the large bed. Loki has unwittingly led the soldiers on a merry chase throughout the palace, and Frigga has seen the two children plot once Thor had told Loki that he wished to join in on the grand game of hide-and-seek that Loki had orchestrated.

Tomorrow, at day's end, Asgard's soldiers will have aged a century.

 **Day 3: Fire**

Diplomacy is an arduous thing, and Volstagg is glad that he is not the main pillar of Asgard's diplomacy. The day is drawing to a close, though the walls of their accommodation is literally white hot. There is some kind of sorcery that holds the magma at bay, and Volstagg thinks that it is a quick and easy way to eradicate anyone unwanted - by just _collapsing_ the walls of seiðr .

The room has been doubly warded by the General to prevent just that, and the cooling magic by Hjortrson works wonders for Volstagg's flesh, slow-cooked from the heat.

 **Day 3: Water**

"Look, that blasted stag is there!" The whisper feels like a shout in Rúni's ear, and he flinches in response. True to the words of his shield-brother, Dáinn is indeed there, looking for all the world at home in the corridor made of stone despite the fact that the stag sticks out like a sore thumb beside the grand tapestries.

Where the stag is, there are bound to be two little mischief demons in the vicinity.

Dáinn enters one of the rooms, and the door slowly turns, nearly closing the gap. Rúni moves forward with his partner, trying to reach the room as silently as possible. With a prayer, he pushes the door open as steadily as possible, but the door catches on something - _there is a sound above_ \- and the next thing he knows, there is an icy cascade of water that falls from above.

Loki and Thor both turn to look at their uncle Freyr, lying on the floor shaking - breathless from keeping his laughter in.

Thor grins at the marvellous prank while Dáinn shakes off some of the droplets that have gotten on his coat, and Loki frowns at the waterlogged rug and equally drenched men.

 **Day 4: Plots**

Freyr is grinning widely, and Freyja knows the reason why - her brother is set to win the wager along with a tiny handful of others in the palace-wide betting ring, that Loki will have the best-trained battalion in all of Asgard _utterly defeated_ by the time Haraldr returns.

They have gathered in their sister's Hall, ready to depart for their home Realm, and yet Freyr is still whispering in young Loki's ear. Her brother turns to speak to Haraldr's familiar, and Freyja watches with amusement as the stag nods to a few words and then shakes his horns at the end of the sentence.

Loki watches as his uncle talks to Dáinn as if the stag is a soldier under his command, " Yesterday was _perfect._ Do not ruin this, Dáinn."

There is something soft brushing his hair, and Loki looks up to see his aunt. Her hair is the same colour as Thor's and Uncle Freyr's, but it shimmers like a living waterfall of gold, "Is that all that is on your mind, brother?"

Freyja turns to Loki, and makes sure to give the little one a tight hug. Long enough to tide the little one over till Haraldr returns, "Be brave, and be strong. Dáinn will be here for you, and your father will return soon, Loki."

 **Day 4: Plots**

"King Surtr. Surely you understand that the Allfather has declared Midgard to be under his protection."

The fire demon merely looks upon Harry as if he is a mere child - _the tiniest of ember demons, in eldjötun translation_ \- and the magma around them roils when the King speaks, "Odin does not know of the consequences that he has set into motion. Midgard has always been a open Realm - and it would be a barren thing if not for Muspelheim,"

King Surtr is referring to his people's beliefs - there is a reason why Earth is called Midgard; the _middle of Yggdrasil_ , where the World Tree branches out. And Midgard is merely an amalgamation of all of the Realms. With Muspelheim comes the molten core of the Earth. Jötunheim, the ice. Ice and fire produces water. Alfheim is an abundant land of trees. Niðavellir, the earth. Vanaheim with its plethora of animals. Asgard is the light, and Svartálfheim is the shadow. And with such abundance, there is a final realm - left nameless - of the nothingness.

"... and what I ask for is not impossible. Merely some tribute that I wish from Midgard, in return of the fertile lands that the fire and molten flame bring."

 **Day 5: Conclusion**

Calor feels his King's fire flicker in annoyance.

The Asgardian still stands strong, despite the fire that surrounds him. Any other being from the other Realms would have succumbed to the heat, especially since the heat in the Throne Room is much higher than normal.

He cannot say that the negotiations are a success - Hjortrson has managed to keep his wits about him.

"You will have your tribute as promised, King Surtr."

Hjortrson will be escorted to the departure point, and Calor hopes to never see the Dark General of Asgard ever again.

 **Day 6: The General's Return**

Oh Valhalla and all her Valkyries. Runi feels like falling to his knees in prayer to the Norns. He's found the General's son, but he is hanging from the stag's antlers precariously. So far the cervine familiar has not yet noticed his presence, but it is a matter of time.

He can't quite retrieve Loki without startling Dáinn and getting a kick in the face, and he risks startling Loki and resulting in the boy falling to his death.

His fellow soldiers round the corner, and Rúni feels his stomach disappear, "THERE IT IS! GRAB THAT STAG!"

Dáinn jerks, and Loki is startled out of his firm grip.

Rúni jumps.

Volstagg doesn't quite know what to say, having seen the seiðr woven with nothing more than the flick of the wrist. Haraldr Hjortrson looks down upon the unconscious soldier who has wrapped himself around a giggling Loki, and Volstagg wonders what is to become of the men tasked to take care of Loki.

Loki scales his father like a steep cliff, obviously unhurt with the net of seiðr and a soldier-cushion.

The Dark General chuckles heartily, but coupled with the way that the thick clouds suddenly obscure the sun, it sends waves of chill up Volstagg's spine.

"I think that some commendations are in order, hmm?"

 **Author's Notes:**

 **This interlude ties up what I left hanging in the previous chapter - well,** _ **sort**_ **of, you can imagine what happens next - and somehow a little worldbuilding-slash-culture thing crept in. This interlude is** _ **incredibly late**_ **, because I marked it as 'posted' in my file archive when it clearly was not.**

 _ **Silvertongue is mentioned in Proverbs 10:20 as a tongue that belongs to a just person (one who is upright in word and deed)**_

 **Inspiration for this little thing:**

 _Regard your soldiers as your children,_

 _and they will follow you into the deepest valleys;_

 _look on them as your own beloved sons,_

 _and they will stand by you even unto death._

 _Sun Tzu_


	10. Chapter 8

**A writer, I would fancy myself, if things would be. But take note, I do not write for others – I write for my own amusement, and my brand of storytelling is my own – I only share these worlds that I dream up.**

 _"And ever has it been known that love knows not its own depth until the hour of separation."_

 _ **Khalil Gibran**_

Frigga knows the patter of tiny feet anywhere, and looks up from her loom to see her young son. Her surprise may be false, but she can never feign her smile when she sees his bright grin, "Thor! What are you doing here?"

Her son makes a happy noise, and buries his face in her skirts.

"Well, my Queen, if I may interrupt," Haraldr stands at the frame of the arch, Loki in tow, and Frigga waves them in, "the little Prince proclaims to have 'escaped' from his chambers. I thought it prudent to leave him in his mother's care while I seek for the guards responsible."

He cuts an impressive figure, even devoid of the imperial armour; stark black fabrics against the golden walls. She can never tell if he is merely jesting in such settings, even if there is nothing but familiarity and family between these walls, so she stops him regardless of his true stance and bids him to sit while the children attempt to wrestle Dáinn to the floor, "Such business can wait, for the guards will hardly run from their sworn honour – here is a sanctuary for my handmaidens, and it will be respected."

He sits down meekly, betraying his straight-faced jest, and begins to pluck at strands of seiðr from the air to add to her stock of fibres. The threads that he pulls are thin yet strong, and Frigga looks forward to the fineness of the fabric that will be woven. It is startlingly different to have the Shadow General of Asgard to do such a task, but then again, she has known Haraldr long before his titles of power and grandeur.

Their idle chatter over work adjourns when the rest of her handmaidens come into her halls, bearing smiles and hopes for the latest marvels and more that Asgard's diplomat brings to her halls.

Thor is sprawled onto Dáinn's back, and Loki laughs, trying to pull away the large head with a firm grip on antlers as the stag attacks his cheek with a strong tongue. The ticklish sensation stops when the Queen's ladies stream into the hall. Loki follows them, Thor opting to stay with Dáinn at the far corner of the hall, and soon most of them are cloistered around his father.

Today, he presents something called 'si'. The word is in a language that Loki has never heard before, and then his father calls it by another word: silk. Bolts of liquid fabric are pulled from thin air, and Loki cannot wait to master the art of storing items in seiðr .

It shimmers like light on liquid, cool on his fingertips, but Loki can feel no whispers of seiðr from the woven fabrics save for the residual storage magic. The swathes of fabric come in vibrant colours, and the ladies step forward eagerly. Where it comes from, or how it is made, his father does not say – only mentioning that he hopes for the cities of Svartálfar to begin their production as soon as possible, and Loki notes the interest in their expressions - there is no such cloth in the markets of Asgard.

The cloth exchanges hands, and in return, his father receives whispered sentences, pieces of parchment and handmade things. It is the way of things, a particular sort of ritual that passes each time that his father returns from his ventures out of Asgard. He shares the first of any commodities that the handmaidens of Frigga will favour, and tells them of tales of far beyond Asgard to feed their curiosities. They return the favour with handmade things and let him listen to the murmurs of the Court.

Loki returns to his father's familiar and the young prince when the exchange session ends – the work of the adults and their play with the stag is eventually adjourned for a grand celebratory feast in honour of his father's success in the recent negotiations, something that his father detests.

The feasting hall is bright with the torches mounted from every available bracket, and Loki watches in wonder as the many tables are filled with people, chattering excitedly as the servants ply the tables with platters of food and trays of drink. It is his first ever feast, but he is not afraid; he is safe in his father's arms.

The first time that Loki sees his father fight, there is nothing less than absolute awe and the swelling pride in his chest. Each clash of blade upon blade brings the singing of vibrating metal, and his heart jumps with each close call of Hallvarðr's blade. A blade eventually makes its way to the neck of the Weapons Master, and Loki thinks his father a hero among warriors for it. It is only later on that he discovers from Hallvarðr that the near-misses are merely calculated dodges by his father, and then there are no words to describe that startling revelation.

That first experience is a long time past, but Loki's emotions from that time have not faded in the least.

Neither Loki nor his father can see the glaive aimed for his father's head until it is nearly too late, but his father senses it somehow and parries, as Loki watches from the edge of the training hall. The sound of blades striking wood crosses the hall, solely punctuated by heavy footsteps and panting breaths.

"That was a good attempt," his father says to the one with the glaive – it is either Sigmarr or Volstagg, but with the padded armour and helmet, Loki cannot be sure.

"But you are fighting as a team of five. Had I the inclination to return the blows with my blade, I would be fighting two men by now. You cannot even hope to bring down a single new-born linnormr this way."

He watches as his father twirls the staff one-handed, and hears the hiss of the men as they drop their weapons from the shock of being struck on their knuckles, "And now, without weapons, you have been slayed by the creature that you sought to slay."

The practice continues, another batch facing his father, who is barehanded this time.

There is an unspoken question in his son's eyes, and Harry smiles at the restraint of his son, "What questions do you have now, dear heart?"

There is a flash of surprise in Loki's eyes at his father's perceptiveness, and then his son blurts out, "I want to learn how to fight, father."

There is a stab of fear that pierces his heart at the determination in Loki's eyes, but Harry stamps it down and smothers it. There is only so long a time that Loki can seek shelter under his blanket protection, and Asgard is hardly a Realm known for its peace and serenity. It is the symbol of absolute power – upheld only by blood and war and violence. His son cannot grow up to be as naive as most of Asgard are.

Harry agrees, and the evening sun finds them standing in one of his rooms later that day, cleared of all clutter. It is a delicate subject to begin, especially for a young child, and Harry waits until he has his son's full attention, "I will expect you to do as I tell you. I will treat you as I do the soldiers – push them till they know their limits – and you have seen them in training before. No soldiers in Asgard start this early, and you are no soldier, because I am not one."

His father's voice has taken on that quality – the one that makes the entirety of the guards stand at attention – and Loki feels for a moment like he is something to be proud of, "You will never be a mere soldier of Asgard. You will not learn how to fight; you will learn how to defend... and how to defeat."

Loki starts that very day that he voices his request; bare-handed stances that he has seen earlier that day. He learns how to stand firmly, how to fall, how to get up. He also learns other things, like how to make a man as tall as his father fall to the ground with only his legs and a sturdy push. There are so many things, and by the time they end, they barely clean up in time for dinner in the Royal Hall.

Loki smiles when his father apologises to the Queen for their almost-lateness, and feels the brush of his father's hand on his hair.

 _It is yet another secret that he has with his father._

Thunderstorms roil in the distance when Harry manages to tear himself from his work of researching seiðr from books in the Royal Library and the other Realms, and then reconciling them with his knowledge.

 _There is science,_

 _there is magic,_

 _and then there is seiðr,_

 _and the ever-changing laws of truth of the universe._

It all seems impossible; how the universe contorts itself and Harry realises that his mind is simply not equipped to handle understanding it in its entirety. Death does understand it, and that is the reason why she is still unable to fully communicate with him with regards to the workings of the vast fabric of the universe.

The thunderstorm overhead is unleashing its unhampered fury when when Harry finally reaches his bedchambers. It is no surprise to see Prince Thor and Loki huddled together in his bed waiting for him right beside his stag; the storm sounds absolutely frightful. The two jump when the light shoots into the room, followed instantly by the monstrous cracks of thunder.

And now that he is here, he knows the reason for the growing intensity of the storm - his young godson is unconsciously fuelling the storm for every thunderous snap. It is the working of his mother's heritage, Harry thinks, and sends out a few charms to the window to muffle the sound instead of silencing it completely, because it will be good for them to get used to it, and for the young Prince to sleep in his own bed. He announces his presence to them, and then keeps them in a light hearted conversation in a bid to keep their thoughts off the 'monsters' that hunt in the clouds and rain overhead.

"I hunted for a monstrous beast in the dark Svartálfarian caverns," Thor recounts, bravado in his voice, which Harry thinks it to be an imagined jaunt through the kitchen's vast cellars, "and then I slew it, despite its vicious claws and snapping teeth."

Loki agrees with the Prince and Harry just chuckles when he joins them in bed, ablutions done. They have been excited by their own retelling of hide and seek with his familiar, who bellows his complaints through the mind-link at being trussed up like a common boar. They request a story from him - Thor plain out begging, and his son with those irresistible puppy dog eyes even in the semi darkness.

He thinks for a moment – because there are many stories that he knows, but all of them are too full of political treacheries for the children to understand.

He feigns, "I have no stories of swords and glory that you have not heard in the great feasts, all I have heard of are the stories from the Warriors of Asgard," They stop mid-groan when the lightning illuminates his wicked grin, "but I do know of one that few on Asgard have heard of."

"Now, we have need of names for our characters," Father proclaims with a wan smile, something that Loki has rarely seen on his father's face. He battles with the Prince for the right to grant the hero a name, but in the end they have chosen the same name, 'Hǫðskuldr' (hero). The other boy Thor names 'Tryggr' (trustworthy), and Loki names the young maiden 'Sigyn' (new victory).

The story starts off like no other – Hǫðskuldr is not like the brave men that all Asgardian tales start off with – the hero of the story is weak and a mere Midgardian. That is also what Hǫðskuldr thinks, until the day that he winds up in the acquaintance of a giant.

He learns of his people, and learns of his parents, long dead as victims of a savage war. Loki closes his eyes to imagine, as his father's beguiling voice takes him into the bustle of the marketplace as Hǫðskuldr and his Jötun friend prepare for their journey to the far reaches of Yggdrasil, places where common folk have never seen the likes of before.

The story is too long to be told in a single sitting, and Loki feels sleep pulling at his eyelids as his father continues. He dreams of a never-ending line of red carriages that night, and Loki thinks that there must be a monstrous horse at the helm of it all – the striking of its powerful hooves thundering through the land.

Harry is barely through the Sorting ceremony, when he realises that both boys are asleep. He would have lain down beside them, were it not for the fact that the young son of Asgard is a strong sleep-kicker.

He conjures a bed for himself and his son, setting Loki on it before tucking Thor into the bed. Harry slips onto the bed, pulling Loki until the small boy fits under his chin, and closes his eyes. He cannot sleep yet, due to the dredging of his memories. They are fuzzy, and have been so for too long.

He continues the story in his mind, turning it over and over until it saps his brain of thoughts. The story does not end with the boy having turned into a man, or having saved the world. But for them, the story will end there.

What Harry does not plan to tell in this story to the boys is how the wars afterward ravage the lands. How Hǫðskuldr's people are nearly decimated by the secrets of secrets – the ending they will never know - he can never tell them because he has not witnessed it - he had left before it could happen.

He watches the shadows pass along with the light rain, chased away by the soft light of the dawn breaking.

Thor is six when he learns that he has to take lessons from the scribes of the Court. They are boring men, who do naught but scribble on paper with ink when Father holds court with other boring men. He stares at his father, who has just made the statement while the House of Odin starts the breaking of their fast. His godfather is away once again, this time negotiating with the Dvergar for something.

"I do not wish to learn," he says, and feels the rest of the activity in the room slow to a halt, as it is wont to do when he tightens his chest to make the words hard and strong.

But his father is hardly fearful of him as the guards and servants are, "You will learn to read and write, no matter what you do or say, Thor. There will be lessons, and you will attend them. It will be indispensable when you are King, and will have the need to know about the going-ons of the Nine."

"Why would I need to learn," he says again, amending his sentence as his father's mouth curls downward, "when Loki can already do so for me?"

The attention of the entire table veers to Loki, who retracts his hand, previously set in a reach for his goblet of juice.

"Is this true, Haraldrson?" his father asks, voice hard in a way that makes Thor wince. He had not meant to get Loki in trouble; but the way his father looks at Loki is something that Thor is hesitant to redirect to himself.

Dáinn gives a soft huff at this moment, and all of a sudden Loki relaxes to give a slight nod. He then says something that Thor has heard his godfather say one or twice, "At your express wishes, Allfather."

Breakfast continues with the Allfather's nod, and Thor is left confused.

"Haraldr Hjortrson."

Harry turns to regard the voice, and then smiles, "The sons of Ivaldi, come to greet me in the flesh? An honour indeed."

Brokkr's face cracks into a smile, "Mayhap the bestowment of such honour lead to merry celebration?"

"If my reserves are not drained dry in your recompense," Harry replies without a beat, only to see Eitri's face shift, "but it seems that this is no matter of my commissions."

It is a full hour before Harry gets the extent of their problem, "You… wish for me to rid the Dvergar of this… fiend," they nod, and then he continues, "To what end then? There are many ways that I could end this, but few that the laws of your folk would agree with."

He watches as their faces twist at the reminder of his reputation. The Dvergar are a race who have honed their crafts of metalworking, from simple trinkets and sharp blades to marvels of master-crafts, and it is rightfully so that they have been humbled by the carnage that lies under their repute.

And so he listens to the tales that they carry in their heavy hearts.

Loki feels Dáinn's rumble of approval as the stiff brush passes through the thick coat. The repetitive work is soothing to the both of them – Father has yet to return as expected from his trip to the lands of the Dvergar, and the young Prince is under the tutelage of the scribes of the Court. It is not the first time that his return has been delayed, but it is not an often occurrence either; so the stables are the best choice to bide his time until then – any guard that his father sends back will have his horse tended to in the stables.

His favourite horses are getting their fill of treats when the stable hands bring in five horses, and Loki feels his heart sink at the familiarity of the newcomers. A dapple grey mare, a blood bay, two roans and one buckskin. All perfect matches of the horses that the guards accompanying his father had ridden out with.

And then the sixth horse comes into the stables, dark as night. Eylir.

Loki's heart feels like it has fallen through the floor itself, because Dáinn knows when his master has returned to Asgard, and his father has not returned. There is a horrible terrible fear that clutches tightly at Loki's chest, as he clings on to the giant stag. They thunder down the hallways just in time to see Queen exiting her halls.

Frigga looks upon Loki, and feels a sharp ache in her heart for the young boy. She cannot assure him that his father is fine, because she has not seen that Haraldr is fine. There is a shroud of darkly coloured seiðr over the lands that he has ventured to.

His hand clutches the cloth of her skirts, and together they walk into the Allfather's halls.

Niðavellir is a rocky mountainous expanse, but its surfaces are well decorated by delicate hands and coveted tools, carved out by dwarves who brave the threat of the twin orange suns, the petrifying light that scours the surface. But Harry has long trekked past the borders of the Dvergar, where the carvings – some immortalized along with their petrified creators – have long dwindled in number.

Skornheim is nothing but a wasteland – the landscape is nothing but ash-covered boulders, and what little that is not made of dust and sand are the withered remains of thorny plants. One sun crawls, directly overhead, while the other seems to move at an oscillating pace, unpredictable. It is no wonder that the Dvergar stay in their caves.

He has made the equivalent of a two-day journey in four hours by his judgement, and Harry suspects that there will be a ways more before he will be able to find the source of the fear that plagues even the faraway lands.

It has been a good choice to send his men back before him.

Loki stands at the furthest corner of the halls, nearly behind one of the guards on the lowest steps of the throne. He is not usually permitted to be privy to the Court's matters, but the Queen has made it an exception – it concerns his father.

Five of his father's guard plod into formation before the King, and they kneel in reverence to the monarch of Asgard. Loki takes solace in the fact that they seem unharmed and well; merely tired from long travel. His stomach still turns at the other few possibilities and the hundreds of possible reasons.

He stays his tongue when the warriors move through the formalities of greeting the Allfather, telling himself that it is a sign that his father is well. A sign that his father still remains in the hospitality of the Dvergar.

The appointed leader of the guard starts to speak, and Loki focuses his every word, "My King, I bear grave news from the Realm Niðavellir," he feels his stomach bottom out at the first sentence.

Hunger gnaws at his stomach. He must be quick to find food; very soon the second sun will follow after the first, and there will be little light to hunt by. His feet are afforded movement by sheer will, and even that reserve is fading fast.

And then he smells it. His stomach works itself into frenzied spasms, even as he crouches down to creep toward the source. He knows the rewards that patience will bring, and waits for the best possible moment. He sees the window of opportunity and pounces on the lone stranger seated on the flat rock, flashing blade in swift trajectory to the man's throat.

There is a brief pang of despair as Hogun slashes his knife and expects the give of flesh under the blade – _he has truly fallen far_.

The fight is quick and decisive, and Harry looks down at the man – no, not quite a man yet, a child – whom he has disarmed. The boy heaves breathlessly under the submission hold that Harry has him in, and he takes the opportunity to study the gaunt cheeks and greasy hair of the young adult. There are no weapons aside from the single gleaming blade lying on the ground a far bit of distance away, and Harry magicks it into his safekeeping for the time being.

He releases his knee from the boy's back, and slowly releases his hold on the arm.

The boy jumps back, dark eyes nearly eclipsed by the full-blown pupil, and the sight of it reminds him of the half-feral werewolf children of long ago. Harry pushes the packed meal of warm meat and drink from the Dvergar forward. It is not the last of his food, but it is the last of the perishables that he carries on his person.

"Eat. And then we shall talk," is what the man says, the delicacy of the spoken words is something that Hogun has heard once upon a time.

There is grit on his hands, and the sand from them grinds against his teeth as he grabs the food by fistfuls. The meat is lukewarm but tastes divine, and Hogun does not care if the meat is laced with poison – at least he will die a sated man despite the fact that he has failed the vengeance of his kin upon Mogul.

He pauses, feeling pangs of guilt towards his people, and sets his determination once again. He feels the gaze of emerald regard him, and resumes his brazen consumption of the food. He will need to renew his strength, and seek out the Mystic Mountains to exact the punishment that the Ruler of Zanadu deserves.

He washes down the remnants of the meal with the bitter drink, and then regards the emerald gaze. He has nothing much to lose at this point to a sheer stranger who has fed and watered him in this near lifeless expanse of land – all that sustains him are the thoughts of vengeance and blood, and he knows that there is nothing left to live for beyond that paper-thin excuse. He has long accepted the deaths of his family and brothers-in-arms, and he might as well leave the memories of his people with someone else before he perishes far away from the lands of where he was born.

He cannot look for long at those eyes that seem to pierce everything, so Hogun starts the narrative of his homeland and its people with his inelegant grasp of the Ӕsir dialect.

 _The land is wide and vast, and Hogun peers out from behind his brother's back at the spread of the land. His brother warns him against leaning too far out, and Hogun knows why – his brother had once leaned out too far, and fallen from horseback. The bone had been broken and reset, and what remains of the fracture is a bump where the bones have slightly overlapped._

 _"The grass has been shorn short by our animals – we will have to leave soon for the summer pastures," is what his brother says. The sentence is cut short, and Hogun spots the reason for it._

 _Dusk slowly approaches, but a section of the horizon is beginning to be shrouded in black smoke, the bottom of the plume highlighted by flickering red._

 _The pastures where their family had settled on is on fire – the start of a fiery nightmare that greedily swallows every joy that Hogun has known._

There is a bout of silence when the ragged voice finishes its last syllable.

It is the same story that Harry has heard, but it is not one passed on by word of mouth and empathetic hearts. It is a story, straight from the damaged throat of a survivor. He tilts his head at the young man who calls himself Hogun with nothing more attached behind the given name, and returns the blade with a flourish of seiðr that looks more like a sleight of hand to observers.

"Turn back. Return to your homelands. Mystic Mountain is no place for whelps to dream about glorious revenge."

The knife is a familiar weight in his hands, and Hogun snarls at Hjortrson's words, "And _you_ know better then? I have _nothing_ to return to. Those who stayed were slain for sport, and those who ran were chased and hunted like wild game. The lands lie dead, stinking of rot, and bones litter the surface. My father and uncles and brothers have perished in this unforgiving land for revenge."

Verdant eyes turn onto him, and Hogun drowns in the endless green and the cold hard truth in the man's face, "The dead have no need for vengeance, and those left behind are unable to lay down anything but their lives seeking blood to equal that that has been spilt. In the end, all that is left will be roiling hate and oceans of blood. When Mogul is dead, what will you live for then? Will you blindly follow those who have departed before you then, instead of living your life _for them_?"

The rage stops dead in its tracks, and Hogun thinks that he feels true despair for the first time, now that he has heard the denials of the deepest corners of his mind out loud from another stranger.

 _He truly has nothing to live for._

Frigga finds him huddled on one of the sills of the large palace windows, where the stars begin to make themselves known on the growing inkiness of the sky, accentuating the glow of the Asbrú.

"Dinner will begin shortly, little one," her voice is soft and comforting, but all young Loki wants is his father.

"I'm not hungry," a pause, and then he adds an afterthought, "my Queen."

The midnight curls of his hair are soft under her fingers, and Frigga feels a pang in her heart when he leans into her touch.

 **Well, this chapter is dedicated to the ones who've stayed on and written words of encouragement. You've been awesome.**

 **Originally planned to post this prewritten chapter earlier for the 1-year (storyboard) marker, but things seldom turn out as planned. Very little changes to the original content in this arc, probably because it was still very fresh when I decided to do the rework.**

 **As the saying goes, "I'll see you when I see you."**

 **Regards,**

 **ikki.**

 **P.S.: Happy holidays to all - I hope you spend time with family and loved ones having fun.**


	11. Chapter 9

**A writer, I would fancy myself, if things would be. But take note, I do not write for others – I write for my own amusement, and my brand of storytelling is my own – I only share these worlds that I dream up.**

 _"What difference does it make to the dead, the orphans and the homeless, whether the mad destruction is wrought under the name of totalitarianism or the holy name of liberty or democracy?"_

 _ **Mahatma Gandhi**_

 _"When we rode toward the other encampments, we saw demons. They danced in the fire, danced on the bodies of the dead and dying, crushed our souls under their ugly feet."_

The crunching of rock underfoot is synonymous to his footfalls, but Harry sighs out aloud, "If you wish to follow me, I would request that you cease from walking like a bumbling drunk. You give away our position generously to those who gladly serve under the name of Zanadu."

The footsteps slow, and Harry does so as well, making sure to let his shadow see how to walk with near silence even on loose sand and rock. He allows Hogun to follow him, because the stubborn brat will more than likely perish while searching for the Mystic Mountain and Harry does not like the idea of traversing the entirety of the terrain just to reap a child's soul – one whose circumstance of death would be nothing but the cruel turns of fate. Not when he can prevent it.

The headway that he has made is woefully short without the use of magic, but Harry settles into making camp. He has an unofficial charge under his wing now and the young ones always tire easily.

Hogun stares, and Hjortrson ignores; and it is an opportunity for him to discern the features of the man who has saved him from the certainty of Death of a land that is unknown to him.

Neither of Dvergar lineage nor of Vanaheim descent – Hogun is sure, for his own people are mixed of each bloodline from ages past – Hogun recognises the cut of Asgardian clothes and the hum of Dvergar blades, both made of incomparable quality, and both exceptionally rare to find in the sole ownership of an outsider of the three Realms. The man commands attention just by subsisting, and Hogun thinks that he can begin to understand why Haraldr Hjortrson has been tasked by the Dvergar to seek Mogul of the Mystic Mountain.

Loki gives a good swing at the insistent nose nudging at his side, and feels immediate guilt for hurting his only companion wilfully. He whispers his apologies into the side of the large head, and the apology is accepted when Dáinn offers his horns to pull him out of the tangle of sheets. There are many things that he may do, but he wishes to make his father proud when he returns from releasing Niðavellir from the terror of a monster.

He spends part of the morning breaking his fast in the kitchens, surrounded by the hearty and bustling atmosphere, a far cry from the Royal Hall. Lifa sets down cheese and bread for him, as well as choice cuts of fruit. She gives him a great hug that smells of freshly baked bread and earthy grains, and then sends him off with his leftovers of fruits and nuts, wrapped in cloth to share with Dáinn and Eylir.

His father's horse is brushed as best as Loki can manage, and he nibbles at his hair in return when the black coat positively shines under the light. He has his midday meal with the Queen and her son Prince Thor, and then spends the better part of the noon listening to the scribes detail the inner workings of the Court to a drowsy Prince.

He slips out of the room with an excuse when he cannot bear it any longer, and Dáinn then carries him to the training halls, where the men have organised an all-weapons-barred competition. It is no surprise that Hallvarðr has an undefeated winning streak for the day's matches, and by then Loki has picked out a few moves that he is eager to test out himself.

The evening is spent in one of the many rooms of his father, sifting through some of the oddities that his father has crafted out of boredom and curiosity. All of the ones in the rooms are 'relatively harmless', or so his father has told him, with the more dangerous wares locked up beyond locks and keys of any sort.

Still, Loki stays in the first few rooms – the fifth room down the nearly endless hallways of their quarters is harmless to his father perhaps, but Loki will not take his chances; his sighting of a book with _monstrous_ teeth is surely not a figment of his imagination.

He finds a small carved box, and falls asleep tucked into Dáinn's side listening to the melody playing over and over again.

The flames dance and writhe sinuously, and the light that the fire gives off is no brighter than the moonlight that spills overhead. It is an unnatural thing, but the nights have been growing unforgiving as they travel towards the heart of Mystic Mountain, so Hogun edges closer to the blazing warmth that the ghostly flames emit.

He soothes the ragged burn of his throat with the waterskin that he has received from Hjortrson – _a curiosity on its own_ – it never runs dry, and the water is cool and fresh, as if from a spring. The man has seen to his throat, and declared that the damage can be reversed by the skilled Healers of Asgard, but Hogun thinks that he will let it be. He has decided to never give voice to the folk songs of his people now, because those are songs that require the participation of more than one.

He will let his damaged voice remind him forevermore of the things that he has lost.

He watches fire, imagining demons to be dancing on the ashes. The translucent fire is hidden from his view when Hjortrson steps in front of him, and Hogun looks up from the flickering sway of shadows at the booted feet.

"Two days' of hard travel from the location of Zanadu's scouts. From today onwards, we will be travelling in the cover of night."

Hogun blinks at the sudden appearance of under armour at his feet – carefully maintained weaves of cloth – light as cotton, but strong, impenetrable even, when Hogun puts a knife to the fabric close to the seam to test it.

The afternoon brings a flood of warmth upon the courtyard, and Odin watches with a keen eye from the window far above as two children tumble about the yard under many watchful eyes. It will be many years yet before his first-born will grow into his title as the Crown Prince of Asgard - and Odin is keen to keep it that way.

He looks upon his son's companion, watching as Haraldrson nimbly dodges Thor's lunge. By some prearranged gesture, the two boys team up on a laughing guard, who surrenders his weapons to his partner before chasing after two boys and one stag. Dressed in the finest clothes of Asgard, he supposes that the two of them would look to be close as brothers of royal blood to an uninformed person…

But Haraldrson's very nature is not Ӕsir, and he will never be. The boy that he calls his son is of Jötun stock - his very skin is composed of an intermingling of seiðr and frost-pelt. And even if the boy were Hjortrson's get, he would still not be true Ӕsir - Hjortrson is an inconceivable creature; Odin would call him a golem, but the man has free will and spirit to match, and once upon a time was made of mortal flesh, and interwoven with seiðr and something more than Odin's eye can comprehend.

He looks down at his right hand, and sees the scar that slashes across it. Wicked schemes had been born of it, the panic that had bloomed when he has discovered Hjortrson's vague binding of his newly–sworn blood brother to his will, and everytime he looks into green eyes, he remembers the betrayed gaze that no one else sees. He would not have done such deeds, had he the chance to return to those times, but he does not regret.

The flesh of his scar draws tight as he flexes his hand, and Odin returns to his throne, to head the matters of the Court.

The Allfather, Sovereign of Asgard, does not regret anything. He has taken charge of the safety of Yggdrasil - he cannot falter.

 _Regret is the mark of lesser beings._

The weak moonlight overhead barely stops Hogun from stumbling over rocks. They have walked between the split of the Mountain for a second night, and his mind has started to wander when Hjortrson sends a palm backward to halt Hogun's advance.

"Wait here," it is an order worded as a request, so Hogun nods, watching as the man slinks past the corner, sticking to the shadows like a great animal on a hunt. There is the sound of a boot scraping on rock, and Hogun freezes instinctively, relaxing when the mysterious Asgardian reappears and motions Hogun to come forward. Only to freeze again when his line of vision comes into contact with four soldiers dressed in the armour of Zanadu. They stand stock still, apparently insensate to either intruder. All four pairs of eyes are glassy, and when Hogun nears the team of soldiers, their breaths are slow and steady.

They move on through the labyrinth paths, stopping a dozen more times for Hjortrson to repeat his feat of subduing the guards with nary a sound after the first time. Hogun never even witnesses how the man does it. He does not even know how the man senses the soldiers who have been said to be as silent as Death. He thinks he sees for Hjortrson for who he is – a predator stalking its hapless prey – and feels no more assured at the realization than when the man had pinned him down a few days ago with the weight of those emerald eyes.

The first time is an exception. The sting against his senses is a familiar and unwelcome one, and Harry turns the corner to see four men and an unmoving lump on the ground. The blood is apparent even with the weak moonlight and the shadows, and Harry stumbles at the sudden stabbing sting as a sword runs through the lump one last time.

The men turn, and Harry immobilizes them with a simple spell. It is far too late for the fallen man – Saguta is his name – who hails from the same lands that Hogun is from. The man leaves with Harry's blessings, and the body is stowed away in dimensional pocket for a proper and respectful disposal.

The group of soldiers undergo a quick swipe of the mind, and Harry reconciles their knowledge with his understanding of the canyons from his probing tendrils of magic.

He is unable to find rest in sleep tonight.

The nights are when he feels more vulnerable than the other hours. The Jinni Devil is of no use to him in the night, as are his golem subordinates, who cling to their mortal tendencies in the night. The safest place is in his stronghold, but its narrow hallways are far too small to house the great monstrosities that pass as his guards.

It is then when Mogul feels the chill upon his spine at the silky voice that calls his name.

"Mogul. Otherwise known as Mystic Mogul. Warlock Supreme. _Prince of Darkness._ "

The enchanted sword flies to his hand, and Mogul readies himself, "Who are you? Show yourself!"

There is a shift in his vision – as the air shimmers into a silvery fabric – and a man emerges from the darkened room like a shadow stretching into existence against the light. Mogul takes in the paleness of the man who is clad in nothing but the most ominous shades of black-green leathers and gold adornments.

And he laughs, because he has been waiting for so long – he has finally caught a worthy catch.

 _Yet another to enslave and add to his rank of guards._

Hogun walks in the flickering shadows of the tunnels, keeping out of the glow of the torches that line the walls. The minute trail of near-invisible indicators will lead him to the dungeons are scattered on the ceiling. There is a brief thought that he tries to squash down as soon as it surfaces, but it latches on mercilessly, and builds the fear in his gut.

" _My, my_. Look at what I've found, scuttling through the halls," his heart stutters in his chest, and he turns to the source of the voice, to see a woman dressed in green. Her eyes narrow at the sight of him, and her calculating gaze scans him up and down, " _vermin_ come to free his own?"

The ground gives way, and the darkness devours him readily.

The last thought that Hogun has is that he will most probably see his brother out on those pastures that he has called home for all his life.

Mogul has always found a _sense_ of greatness and belonging in the creation of terror on the face of another. He knows it to be wrong in all sense of the word, but he has always revelled in the sheer _exhilaration_ that it brings. It is how he remembers his sire and dam – bruised, bloodied and soiled in their own waste. He remembers his sister with tears in her eyes, clutching at his hands with her own mangled ones, gratitude in her eyes for saving her from the very things that should have protected her from the ugliness of life.

He has risen above anyone and everyone, quashing their ability to overthrow him. He has grown strong. He has grown powerful. He has the right to make everything in Yggdrasil _quail_ under his might.

 _But this man_. For a moment Mogul is unsure if he even can be counted as a person, or even a living being. The strange mockery of a living thing who bats away his advances with the enchanted sword, who waves away the magical destruction of his greatest treasures like it is nothing more than dust on his clothes.

Nevertheless, Mogul is not out of moves. He has one final weapon, perfected with the deaths of the mightiest warriors that he has faced. No man, even one with impenetrable defences, can fight against a war that goes on in their very insides.

His aim is true, and Mogul smothers the grin when the vial shatters against the armour, coating the man in the most insidious substance that Mogul himself has ever seen.

The Spotted Plague.

Harry has very nearly forgotten this sensation; white-hot, crippling pain. The liquid burns wherever it lands, tarnishing the metal of his armour and seeping through the protective leather layers to burn at his skin. It scorches a trail as it courses through his veins, reminiscent of a Blood Boiling Curse.

 _It eats away at him, devouring his insides._

The floor is rough and foul under his cheek, but it is not that which wakes Hogun. It is the pain in his ankle that stabs him awake, but it is the realization that spears cold dread into his heart. He is not alone in this pitch black darkness, surrounded by rot and decay.

Something large lies in this cavernous room, and its breath rumbles the floor with dankness. The smothering despair is lifted when he feels fresh air, coming in the direction opposite that of the unknown beast.

He reaches out blindly in the direction away from the massive beast, trying to get as much distance as possible by inching along on his belly. He touches something odd, and his exploratory touches leave him recoiling in disgust when he realizes that he has stuck his hand into an eye socket ripe with flesh and wriggling maggots. The sick threatens to heave out his mouth, but Hogun swallows the bile. He grits his teeth, and pushes the skull away as silently as possible before moving again. It is painful journey, because his crawl along the gritty ground scores the skin of his forearms, and he discovers that his ribs are more bruised than his initial estimate.

But still, he reaches the sliver of an opening after it all, and the somewhat fresh air makes it worth the journey. It feels like the last few breaths that he will ever have.

 **Framework and characters (those with actual names) were borrowed from none other than Marvel Comics. Just about everyone in this canon mini-arc has origins that are somewhat vague, so I have taken (a ton of) liberties with it.**

 **One update before I speed-pack and hop out of the city.**

 **You know what? Let's just call this** _ **thing**_ **an intermittent hiatus.**

 **The direction for Transliterations is already set - everything just hinges on the free time in my schedule.**

 **That being said, my personal computer has died on me, killing some of the word documents as well. There'll be some downtime as I get my WIPs up to where I left off. I'll also need to wait a while to squeeze enough out of my finances to replace a few parts or get a new one altogether. (Possibly build one from scratch, mebbe. I've gotten a few ideas from thermoelectric components and my love for proof of concept is killing me.)**

 **Until then,**

 **ikki.**


	12. Chapter 10

**A writer, I would fancy myself, if things would be. But take note, I do not write for others – I write for my own amusement, and my brand of storytelling is my own – I only share these worlds that I dream up.**

 _ **Before we let go of things, there is that sole moment that we grasp it the tightest.**_

 _ **We are afraid.**_

 _ **And when it falls from our grasp, our mourning grows.**_

He cannot die, but that does not mean that he cannot _suffer_.

He cannot die, but that does not mean that he cannot fall into the machinations of another.

There is acid in his veins. It blooms in brilliant agony all over the surface of his skin, and it sinks its barbed thorns deep in his marrow. Harry has long since lost count of the times that he has cursed his human-Ӕsir constitution but this is the most vehement episode. Death hovers over him, providing him a focal point with which to keep his consciousness. She keeps him tethered to the plane of consciousness, but with such depth in the pain, his mind will wear out soon enough.

"Your resistance is promising – I shall expect a sweet harvest when the plague takes over your very mind, Nameless One. Just like the seiðmenn who bore me the Jinni Devil, or the men that will soon will be my well-trained legion of Demon-Riders."

Mogul lifts his attention from the man writhing on the floor to Shezada, who glides into the room with all the grace of a queen.

"I found a rat in your palace, dear brother," she comments by way of conversation, before turning her attention to his latest conquest, "but I see you have found _another_."

"Not vermin, this one. This one is a hunting _dog_. Or will be, once the Spotted Plague is done with him," there is a twisted sense of vindication, as he delivers a vicious kick to the fallen man. The twang that runs up his own leg feels good, pleasurable even, because it washes away the crippling sense of fear that he would have lost everything to this man. The guards will know how to take care of his… latest conquest without getting infected, so Mogul allows his attentions to wander.

"Lucky us then, dear brother," her smile is viciously serpentine, but she allows him to guide her out to the throne room to gloat… amongst other things. The blood still pulses with a vengeance in his veins, and he needs to see it to rest.

The guards wrap his limbs in multiple layers before wrapping him in layers of cloth. It feels like an inferno, and there is something like relief when they finally release him into the dungeons. His wrapped wrists are bound to an iron cross; arms stretched perpendicular to his body, tight ropes binding him in a continuous coil from ankles to kneecaps.

His fingers are clenched so tight that his palms are slick with blood, but the pain does not beat the cell-deep agony induced by the venom-plague. He has blacked out several times unknowingly – jolted into awareness by fresh waves of pain – but it hasn't been long, because the magma-hot blood pooling in his upward facing palms have yet to overflow.

Micro-blackouts, then.

The rock surface of his tiny cell is in counterpoint to his heated blood, and there is nothing else except for the flickering firelight beyond the tiny window of the door to see by. And for all the obsession of ridding the palace of vermin by Mogul and his sister, the dungeons are a thriving location for pests.

The rodents have got over their initial wariness, and have been sniffing about his boots. They are best described as skin stretched over bare bone, with much too flesh between. The chains do not have enough give to shoo them away when they nibble away at the leather of his boots. A drop of blood falls from his palm, and Harry watches glassy-eyed as a rat moves over to investigate the sticky liquid.

In retrospect, it is the defining moment that sends his heart dropping through the void once again.

Abu Dakir walks the hallways, searching for the thorn in his master's side. The boy has somehow escaped from the trap dungeon - which would have been by default a bloody death by the crushing maws of Mutasaurus. The boy cannot have escaped far, crawling on his belly like a worm. There will be a reward from all of this – he thinks – as he spots a dark shadow along the length of the wall that does not flicker along with the undulating firelight.

And the best way to reap it is to borrow a page from his Master's book – the boy will get to see his countrymen… and forever be one of them, serving under his master. He smiles, as he summons men to haul a yet unbroken spirit to be smashed.

All the other vermin have scurried back to the hole where they crawled out from, except for the one which had lapped at his blood. It writhes and hisses, tortured. Harry doesn't need a spotlight to see that it is shifting under its skin – there is the sharp splinter of thin bones rupturing flesh – and he feels it die. And even from beyond Death, it struggles, warps… mutates.

It dies twice more, and Harry feels sick to his insides when the soul shatters, the leaking silver turning to rancid grey before his eyes. And now that he has felt the wrongness of it all, he senses the rest. An _army_ of Mogul's monsters.

It seems like a sordid attempt at the imitation of life, with nothing but dark threads of puppetry. But it is merely a good illusion – something else, someone else lies beneath that darkness – and Harry knows that Mogul is not aware of this different side to the creations that he claims to be his own.

He unclenches his hands despite the wretched pain, and begins to pull desperately at strands of seiðr.

He has to stop this before it goes further.

Soft olive skin yields to the pressure from his fingertips, and he watches as coral lips wrap around his finger. A delirious moan is set loose from those lips, as he slides further.

The pleasure of it all is barely disrupted when he feels one thin cord of control snap. It is common for his works in progress to self-terminate – merely survival of the fittest. So he sinks back into the sensation of slick pleasure and the sounds of wet flesh. But then more of his puppet strings snap; like mooring ropes snapping from a great ship in an even greater storm, the recoil snaps him back out from drowning in decadence.

He jolts from the bed, and begins to dress, despite the soft moans of disappointment from the bed, and the phantom presses of lips that linger on his skin.

Something is wrong.

The foot to his jaw and ribs have left a throbbing hot mess of pain, and Hogun groans when the guards shove him down the steep steps. His boots are painfully constricting his now swollen ankles, but Hogun scrabbles to his hands and knees in order to reorient himself.

It was his original destination, to free his countrymen after all. His eyes recognize the warm colours of the natural colours derived from his homeland, but his heart stops at the sight of the monsters that are clothed in them. There is no one to rescue, Hogun thinks, and he will die in his futile attempt. Alien muscles bulge from under torn fabric, and wicked claws and horns adorn their bodies. All of them have their heads angled at him, nostrils wide and inhaling air. Scenting him like mere prey, and the cry of despair does not even leave his throat. The far wall crumbles like ash, and snarls colour the air at the intrusion of a meal.

The dust has barely cleared before Hogun realises what it is.

The lack of adequate light is not a factor, because Haraldr Hjortson _glows_ with a bewitching luminescence. Emerald fire burns in those eyes, silver gleams in his hands, and Hogun watches in horror as the man carves the knives into his flesh before turning the blades onto the chests of Hogun's countrymen with no hesitation.

Perhaps the greatest monster of all the monsters in this dungeon, he thinks, is the man who has saved him from the desert. The fear paralyzes him, and his mind watches numbly as sharp blades and feline grace fells everyone else around him. Booted feet stand before him, and Hogun registers the metal tang of blood as slick hands help him up onto his protesting ankles.

Hjortson's dusty cheeks are strangely wet with tear tracks – _not a monster after all_ – and he whispers something that removes the pain from Hogun's senses and the nausea from his stomach. And from behind his once-again saviour, the felled creatures begin to clamber to their feet, even with the gaping wounds that should have been fatal.

Harry grits his teeth at the sheer disgust and sense of loss that roils up in his stomach – there is nothing left to throw up – the souls of these men are no longer beyond salvation, shattered and oily black things that even Death refuses to touch. The same crushing force is on his soul, threatening to undo all the threads that hold him together, threatening to end all that he has ever known.

 _An eternity alone._

 _The eternal darkness. The pain in his palm, the blood pooling in the indents._

 _The ice in a neverending land._

 _Green eyes, a blinding smile. "Father!"_

 _Ink-black curls under his chin, "I want to learn how to fight, father."_

There is only one way to end this madness, and he doesn't know if he will even survive it; his limbs are only moving with the steel-grip of seiðr threads.

It is that moment that Mogul enters.

Hogun watches, as the man who has mercilessly attempted genocide _screams_. Shrieks of pure agony that stop even the feral beasts of the plains in their tracks.

In that moment, all he wishes for is for the nightmare to end.

It is impossible, that the man still stands. Mogul can feel the plague build-up coursing through veins – the man should have been helpless in a flood of his own fluids, sprouting monstrosities. The man turns his gaze on Mogul – and all that comes to mind is verdant fires blazing in the night – and there are fingers sifting through his mind, and a voice that says, "You thought yourself whole."

Mogul thinks that he can never wash the haunting green from his vision.

It shatters everything, that one sentence. He feels those fingers begin to rip...

The layers are thin. Thin and numerous, laid so thick that no one would have noticed that each and every layer was a lie. He has fed everyone lies and deceit, and the one who has been deceived to the greatest magnitude, is he himself. But the emerald eyes have burnt away everything, and Mogul now sees himself for the pathetic creature that he really is.

He would rather die a thousand deaths than see the dredged memories, but the more he sees, the more he realises that he has never been more than a puppet made to believe that he was the master of his machinations. The warm smiles of his father and mother, strong arms braced over him as they protected him from bone-breaking blows. He had wished and hoped and prayed for the power to _kill_ and _murder_ and _slaughter_ those who had dared. Wanted their blood _splashed_ across the floor, their howls of agony to shred the skies.

 _And so he had made a deal with the sudden darkness in his head._

And his summoned monster had granted his wish in return for his crying sister. He gained knowledge and power and prestige, fashioning a golem in the likeness of his sister from scraps of bone and his own blood. He killed and sacrificed as part of his contract – tricked himself into thinking that he was the master of his own fate. Created servants through fear and intimidation. Fashioned an army from prisoners. Carved a kingdom from blood, bone and bodies. A kingdom of golems, fashioned from his imaginations.

It has been a long journey, and there are many hurts and aches from stumbling around in a blindfold, lead like a common beast of burden by that very monster that he had summoned. And now retribution has come and opened his eyes. Mogul sees no darkly dressed demon now – just a broad shouldered man, standing with a matronly woman, hands on the shoulders of a girl with lovely eyes. All three are dark haired and olive-skinned. All three have been dead for a very long time. There is a boy that stands with them, and Mogul thinks that he sees himself in that boy.

Boy Mogul steps forward and Mogul grasps the tiny outstretched hand.

It's a warm hand - something that he has not felt since the beginning of this wretched life.

And he knows no more but peace.

The screaming stops and Hjortson steps forward. Hogun blinks, and suddenly there is no tall imposing devil bedecked in armour; just a scrawny boy in peasants' clothes stepping toward Mogul. Shaking hands reach towards the boy's, and then Mogul falls over motionless.

The image warps, and then Haraldr Hjortson returns, looking sick and pale. He raises an arm as if to inspect it, and Hogun sees wicked claws emerging from scaled hands. A panicked sound escapes his throat, and Hjortson looks at him. _Really looks at him_. As if he had not realised that Hogun was still alive.

"You have to leave. Now," the voice wavers, and Hjortson falters. A wicked claw breaks through the man's thigh from behind, and Hogun feels the words of protest die in his throat. The man stands, staring into Hogun's eyes despite the pain of the blow. There is a river of red that flows freely from the man's mouth, but the green has yet to flinch.

Hogun sees the path out of the labyrinth of a castle, imprinted into his memory. He floats in the memory, watching as his feet take him down hallways, hysteria and panic locked away beyond his mental reach.

Hogun runs, down the hallways and up stone steps, all the while passing empty pieces of armour filled with ash and sand and rotting flesh. He is barely out from the final corridor when flames roar from the hallways into the sweet dawn air.

His mind is still frayed – unraveling from not only the edges of his consciousness, and nothing is spared – from where Death has impressed her influences. His mind had melded with hers for one moment, and She had stretched him across the entire universe in that single instance.

He had been _everywhere_. Had known the number of breaths that every _single_ creature still had. Stretched across everything, so much so that he had been… non-existent. There had been a brief moment of infinite panic, that he would be lost forever.

He is lost, still. His mind is sifting through a backlog of one lifetime's worth of memories from Mogul, and there is tragedy woven into it from the very start. The venom still runs in his veins, and his hand hurts something terrible. The claws are wickedly sharp things carved from living obsidian, housed in scales the colour of blood, and Harry stares at it until a sound cuts through his hazy mind.

Hogun is sprawled backwards, horror and curiosity and confusion painted on his face. Harry feels his mind work into overdrive – the boy is still alive and untainted by the Spotted Plague. A miracle in itself, but there is no lack of snarling mutated men to spread the disease.

"You have to leave. Now," is all he manages to say before one of the monsters runs a clawed hand through his back. The boy's eyes travel to his thigh, where Harry can feel the claw's exit through the front. What Hogun cannot see is that the rest of the claws have pierced four holes through his back – he cannot speak without spraying the blood in his lungs, so there is only the last resort to get the boy out alive.

Mogul's memory of the castle layout is imprinted into the boy's mind, as well as the absolute instructions for the boy to escape. Hogun's eyes grow hazy, and Harry watches with relief coating his insides as the boy gets to his feet and wobbles toward the exit.

The rest of the monsters start to stir and the so does the venom in his veins. He closes his eyes, and knows what he must do. Resents what he will leave behind. Regrets the things that he will leave behind. He mourns, even as he hoards seiðr and weaves dense layers within the bowels of the castle of Zanadu.

His tears evaporate with the heat of the fiery stag that stands before him, and then… everything turns to brilliant flame.

The training hall is not yet rife with activity, and Loki clambers on top of Dáinn to get a better view of the match-ups. Sigmarr will go against Rúni if all goes well, and one of them will be of the six contenders for the grand champion. The men start to fill into the hall, and Loki spares a grin at their boisterous greeting.

"How fares our little Lordling of Chaos?"

There is a competitive round of endless hair-ruffling, with men dodging Dáinn's waving rack of antlers in answer to them teasing Loki, and it continues until the horn sounds for the participants to get ready. There is a sudden ache in his heart during the end of one round, but it is quickly overcome by the roar of the crowd as Sigmarr scores a spectacular win against Rúni.

He runs two leagues until he is released from the strange spell. His bodily reactions are a belated thing, he thinks, as he heaves up the nausea from the monstrosities and blood and strange things that he has seen. Bile coats his throat in a bitter and painful tang, his vision greys dangerously as he raises his head to regard the chilling sight.

The fires in the distance rage high into the air, a fiery column that still stands out amidst the towering canyon walls and the brightening skies.

Hjortson is nowhere to be seen.

The venom burns. The plague turns to ash. The leather armour is nothing more than crisp pieces of blackened charcoal. The knives remain, however, having endured years in the heat of a star. He watches as everything melts away, watches numbly as the white of his bone shows.

Harry wonders if he is truly dead now, his soul lingering by the wayside as Death collects what little remains of the wretched souls, cleansed by the fire; Fiendfyre is merciful in the fact that it kills long before the pain sets in.

Perhaps that was the reason why he is… feeling a chill. The chill roils in his gut, reminding him that his sensory system should have been vaporised already. Harry frowns, if only mentally, and searches for that fleeting sensation.

 _A pulse of paradoxical cold warmth, soothing his empty core._

 _Loki._

 _He is not dead yet. He does not wish to be dead, yet._

The seiðr takes the form of his wish, and a path free from fire forms at his will. He may be immortal in all sense of the word, but his world is not. His world is so short-lived in the grander scale of things. The Heavens have finally granted him a wish of his own, for once in his too-long life… and Harry is determined to make the most of it.

The suns race each other across the skies, and Hogun watches the skyline. Watches the flaming column with silence, and wonders if it is a figment of his imagination that there are creatures wrought of pure fire dancing within. It is an extravagant funeral pyre, he thinks.

It burns fiercely, and he wishes for the memories of the past months to be like so – to burn away in brilliance and leave nothing behind. Except that he cannot. He feels as though each and every cut is a permanent blight on his soul. Monsters are carved into the insides of his eyelids, and will haunt him in his dreams. He can neither forget the folk-songs of his people, nor erase the tortured screams of his brother. He thinks that he cannot return, cannot see the green grasslands of his homeland without remembering those haunting eyes.

Maybe he'll just sit here, until the world fades away. It hurts too much to move now, and pain spikes through his ribs by the mere act of breathing.

The column of fire dies, and Hogun feels the rumble of the earth beneath his feet, and somehow knows that the death-trap carved into the mountain has collapsed onto itself. The shadows crawl across the bottom of the canyon, and up the walls again, and Hogun knows that he hallucinates when he sees Hjortson.

Knows that it is not him, for the man walks with no hint of injury, dressed in a simple tunic instead of gleaming armour over green and black leathers. Gleaming silver dances between the man's fingers, instead of dagger-like claws of blackened death. Watches as impossibly green eyes bore into his mind…

Everything goes black.

It is that sick sensation of falling that jolts Hogun from sleep. The dream had been vivid – full of _blood_ and _death_ and _pain_ and _suffering_ , and emerald jewels – but it drains quicker than he can remember.

"Oh good, you're awake," the voice is deep, and Hogun belatedly realises that the world swings from side to side, because he is being carried on someone's back.

His throat is a dry, swollen mess, but Hogun manages a decent question, "Where… am I?" It is a good question, but it leads to more. His head hurts, and all Hogun knows… is his own name and nothing else.

 _Where am I?_

 _Who am I?_

It is a cruel thing to do, he knows, to rid Hogun of his memories. It is not a mere Obliviate, but rather, Harry has surrendered Hogun's memories to Death. The boy has had burdens far too heavy to carry, and has observed events that would damn any male seiðr practitioner within Asgard to immediate death without trial. Harry cannot let a breath of this sort of news escape in Asgard.

 _Women have the power to create, and they do so, Haraldr._

 _Men have the power to build, and destroy…_

 _And when men have the power to create…_

 _They create destruction._

The boy's mind is more or less a blank slate, but his muscle-memory remains, as well as his innate intelligence. The gist of the situation has been explained to Hogun – the boy was ambushed by bandits – and Harry removes Mogul's spell of unseeing as they step out of the canyon.

He calls for Heimdall, and feels the familiar lurch of travel.

Haraldr Hjortson seems to always know what he is thinking, but it is not Heimdall's place to question things of the man who has always steered Asgard from war, even if the man has disappeared into the dark veil over Zanadu. The Shadow General merely shows an exasperated expression at Heimdall's obvious visual sweep and his own lack of armour, "Such is the hospitality of Zanadu's people, Heimdall. I will have to hunt to make my armour again."

The boy on Hjortson's back is a portrait of confusion, and the sluggish bleeding at the side of his head is a clear indicator of his current state. The General sets the boy to lie on the floor with that innate gentleness that the man shows to almost all living creatures, and Heimdall Sees the soldiers thundering down the bridge in response to the flash of light from the Asbrú.

All of them are from Haraldr's personally-trained battalion, and Heimdall marvels at their alertness and impeccable form – it is an hour where most of Asgard lies in deep slumber. Such command over men is a dangerous thing, but Heimdall does not have sufficient reason to suspect Haraldr Hjortson.

Yet.

The men exude relief at the sight of their beloved General, and even break out into bawdy jests when it is noted that the man is poorly attired for his station, "Did a maiden charm you of your armour, sir?"

They begin rudimentary treatments on the boy – Hogun, his name is – at his orders, and the entire entourage is on their way to the Healer's Chambers within a fraction of the hour. Heimdall returns his Sight to the now unveiled Skornheim – where there is naught by a canyon with a curious sinkhole in the middle of it.

And in the middle of the sinkhole, there are numerous glass pillars, like that of ceremonial graves.

It is curious, indeed.

"Attend to the boy. I am fine," is all the man that they call 'General Hjortson' says to the Healers. Soft, strong hands carry Hogun to the bed, and equally gentle voices lull him into restful slumber.

He is fine. He is in too good a condition, in fact. Harry refuses to unclothe himself in from of headstrong Eir, because she has an intimate knowledge of the map of scars that is his body. Scars that no longer exist, because Fiendfyre has burnt everything away, and the remnants of his original magical core have been spent by resurrecting a new body. What he is now, Harry isn't even sure. No mortal-Ӕsir constitution, he knows. He feels Death a little more closely, hears her humming a little. He has no need for his magical core now, for he sees the strands of seiðr so much more clearly now, when before, he had largely relied on his sense of touch and innate magic.

He slips out of her grasp with a wan smile and an excuse on his lips. She is hurt, but she does not dare to press her case further. But instead of going to the Allfather, he returns to his chambers. He has earned at least this freedom with his sacrifices.

Loki slips out of slumber, mind still foggy with remnants of a dream. There had been the hum of his father's voice, awash with seiðr, but Loki feels the haze of his dream instantly wash away with the cool hand that sweeps his hair away from his brow. His eyes snap open with disbelief, quickly greeted with smiling green eyes. His father's long hair is damp under his touch, and when his father grins, Loki knows that _this is no dream_.

He feels his father's laughter rumble on his cheek, when he presses his face into his father's neck, and his father falls onto his back with the attack. The humming starts again, accompanied with a comforting stroke down his back. It is a song-verse of Hǫðskuldr again, talking to odd creatures, flying with serpentine creatures as large as a mountain.

He falls asleep, breathing in his father's clean scent of seiðr and forest. Loki thinks that he has ever been happier, because the Norns have heard his pleading.

And that wraps up the Skornheim arc (quite nicely too, if I might be so bold as to add) leaving us with one more Marvel-canon character to play with.

I've been diverting the creative energies to other outlets (future plots of Transliterations, companion fics in the making and other published works elsewhere ) Some of you might have found me elsewhere already. I now have a tumblr link for QUESTIONS on my profile - I am not able to satisfactorily reply questions in reviews that you give me.

And I might have dug myself into a hole by applying for some RL stuff that if successful, will majorly disrupt my division of time.

My regards,

ikki.


	13. Chapter 11

**A writer, I would fancy myself, if things would be. But take note, I do not write for others – I write for my own amusement, and my brand of storytelling is my own – I only share these worlds that I dream up.**

 _Your ancestors called it magic... but you call it science. I come from a land where they are one and the same._

 **Thor Odinson to Jane Foster,**

 **Marvel's Thor**

The darkness is suffocating. It saps his lungs of air, and it snakes through his consciousness.

It is not a nightmare, per se, but it is a never-ending replay of the events that have transpired. He sees it in his mind's eye, and feels the phantom touches that linger on his skin. He feels Death stepping closer, and hears Her hold a low note. It snaps him out of the remnants of Mogul's memories, that of a broken mind, of being an oblivious puppet.

He would have jackknifed out of bed, but instinct stays his movements. Loki lies asleep, curled up on his chest within the tangle of silk sheets. The sheets are dark in the dim light, and they remind him of ominous things. He still has yet to shake off the feeling - shattering souls and cries of the damned - and the guilt of his inability sticks to his conscious like oily slick. It disgusts him, that he had been unable to save them.

 _something else, someone else lurks beneath that darkness_

And it scares him, the possibility that there could be more suffering out there.

He hopes for the morning to come quicker.

The dawn light creeps slowly along the bannister, and slowly spills over to splash the walls in golden light. Harry does not even bother to feign surprise when Huginn and Muninn drop soundlessly from the shadowed ceiling to the top of his wingback. The stack of parchment lies on the table, arranged to perfection and tied such that the two ravens can play courier to their master.

There is not much truth within the report, and what little of it is bloated to give the impression that Harry's week long absence from Asgard was within reason. Perhaps the Allfather should have sent Geri and Freki instead, because the two ravens have a spot of trouble in clearing the bannister with their burden, and he has an unabashed affection for the lupine creatures anyway. Something that Loki has picked up on, judging by the sheer amount of fur and scent markings on his son's discarded clothing from yesterday. It's a funny thought, wolves, stag and children prancing about within the golden walls of Asgard's palace.

Loki stirs upon his shifting, and Harry sets his arm around his son, coaxing his little one back to sleep. This is no time for pondering matters of his jobs, not with his son under his chin and the drowsy warmth of the bed. He sets up barriers upon every opening to his suite of rooms, purges all matters from his mind, and falls into dreamless sleep.

It is an easy sleep, so much so that Hogun has difficulty in ridding himself of it. He wakes, and wonders where he is – soft linen under his fingers, soft conversation beyond the pale curtains, instead of… some dark and hopeless place that his mind expects.

A fair face peeks through the flowing fabric, and slides the curtain open when she discovers that he is awake. Firm hands checks his limbs, and soft voices bid him to sit up. A warm drink slides down his throat, and they send for someone before laying him back into bed.

But he knows the name, and Hogun feels his heart hammer against its cage. _Haraldr Hjortrson_. There is irrationality that buzzes incessantly - fear and respect and suspicion and trust that resound in his mind, when green eyes come to mind. He feels the fear start to course in his veins like a raging river when booted feet start to echo in the distance. He would run, but his legs are weak and he does not know the way out. Hogun finds that he cannot look up when more people enter the room.

But instead of a man of statuesque height, it is a child. A small one, who cannot have seen more than five springs. But he is pale, and black is the colour of his hair, and Hogun shivers.

"Hello, Hogun. I hope that the day finds you better off than yesterday," the voice is soft yet firm, and so very young. It is like the morning sun, and Hogun looks up to see green eyes that seem to be seared into his very memory, "I am Loki Haraldrson."

Bjort walks away, and Rúni turns the news over in his mind. The diagnosis is good, Rúni thinks, though it is a shame that the youth has subconsciously rejected the treatment for his throat. Rúni watches as young Loki talks with Hogun, the boy speaking to the silent teen, "What would you do with him now, General?"

"I would have him take vows of servitude and loyalty. Put him to work as a spy of Asgard."

Rúni chokes between one breath of air and the next, and the General motions for the Healers to step down from panicking. The man snorts, eyes crinkled in a smile, "What else could I wish for him, Rúni? He is an orphan, with no standing in bloodlines or riches, nothing but a will that has seen him through his ordeals. As long as he has an aspiration that does not involve squandering resources or his own life away, my coffers are open to him," there is a brief silence, "unless he proves himself to be another Volstagg. The man has been trying and failing to eat me into poverty."

Rúni laughs, because it is true, and Volstagg's girth grows more astounding day by day, and moves to talk to Hogun about the General's offer as Loki runs back to his father. At the end of the day, there is only tiredness in his bones, and the burn of regret in his throat, for doubting the man that he has looked up to for many years.

"You are sure?" It is the umpteenth time that the soldier known as Rúni has asked him that, so Hogun levels an unwavering gaze at the man until the other shrugs nonchalantly in surrender.

 _Yes, he is sure_. Sure enough to throw away any type of apprenticeship of Hogun's choosing. It seems right, because in his heart of hearts, Hogun owes the man an immeasurable debt.

"That was your last chance to turn back," Rúni grins like there is some hilarious joke, "you have hereby lost the right to whine, complain or cry about anything related to the military from this point on, young one."

Hogun cannot bring himself to smile in response. Not with a half remembered dream of verdant eyes burning in the dark.

Frigga is glad for dark smudge that is Haraldr in her golden halls once again, because he is the safest here, and Loki is happiest when his father is within sight. He seems paler than she remembers, but the man has always been in stark contrast to his dark armour.

"I don't suppose that that the weeds have flourished much in a week, my Queen."

Frigga allows a rueful smile to pass her lips, "You would be right, Haraldr," and watches as his eyes wander to an uninhabited corner of her hall once again, as if something invisible has caught his attention. There is something that haunts him, some spectre of the mind that he has brought back from the bowels of Skornheim, Frigga thinks, which Haraldr is unable to shake off.

His heart is a cluttered thing, but the threads that he plucks from the air are the clearest yet, even more than the crystalline healing waters of Asgard. She does not know what has happened in the shaded lands of Skornheim, only that Haraldr has rid the land of the ominous veil at a great personal cost. Frigga tries in vain to weave at her loom, but her eyes stray constantly to him. He is her closest confidant, and yet she cannot be the same for him.

Eventually he leaves with a giggling son hanging from a shoulder, and takes away his crystal-like weave and black clothes along with him, leaving nothing but a dark shadow of helplessness in her heart.

Death is a constant distraction; her unintelligible murmurs and sighs are sounds that no one else can hear. She is not trying to communicate with him, Harry knows - akin to someone entertaining themselves in an extremely self-contained world - much like those who had endured far too much torture.

There is some respite, however, in the form of his not-so-tiny godson. The young Prince rushes to his side, seated between the Allfather and himself, while Loki sits on the right of Harry. Thor is a cheerful child, who somehow has lungs larger than his ribcage, but Harry still smiles and laughs at the young boy's stories.

Tonight, both his son and his godson will spend a good portion of the hour after the meal coaxing a story out of him, Harry knows. Perhaps a story about discovering one's heritage, of talking and persuasion, of talking enormous serpents out of taking lives.

He has had enough of Death today.

The pattern of the weave is an improvement of Angrboða's original work, and Harry carefully secures the length of cloth against his own body. He whispers for the magic to do its work, and sets a thick leather cord between his teeth as it does so.

The memories of his wounds begin to carve themselves into his flesh, though the pain is not as unbearable as Skornheim poison. There is no song of swinging metal blades coated in flesh-eating venom, acidic liquids, and no burning splashes of magma.

The woven fabric falls away, leaving nothing but a body covered in a map of healed wounds. Merely superficial wounds compared to the ones that he has gained over his interminably long life. No pledges of blood and glory made of tears and honour on these wounds.

Odin's blood no longer forms shackles within his veins. Duties to neither king nor kingdom, though he still has bonds. Bonds borne of heart and fondness that tie him to Asgard still; son and godson and Queen, men who do not question his intentions, people who share heartfelt smiles…

One vow still stands, even after all these years. Renewed with each turn of the decade in opulent ceremonies, spoken without guile, because the Allfather does not accept anything less.

 _For the good of Asgard._

There is a piece of paper tied around the base of Dáinn's horns today. The stag holds still as Loki unknots the thread, and chuffs in contentment when Loki rubs behind the velvet-soft ear as a reward for his patience. The creamy paper is thick, the ink is a sharp black against it, and Loki grins when he realises that he cannot read the message off the bat.

It is another of his father's puzzles.

The message is somewhere in between a picture and a rune, Loki thinks, fingers tracing the oddly shaped characters. And the string of characters is the first clue.

There is a commotion from somewhere near the entrance of the training hall, and Volstagg knows enough to expect something out of the ordinary soon. True to his anticipation, there is the staccato of hoof beats and the sound of laughter echoing from the main door, followed shortly by a flash of white and black.

The noise makes Hogun look up from oiling his blade, and the quirk of his eyebrow is a silent question. Volstagg laughs, remembering that the young man has not been in Asgard long enough to learn its peculiar rhythms. But the boy will know in time, so Volstagg just shrugs.

A volery of birds take flight from the forest below, and Harry leans out of the window to take a better look. There is a hint of white antlers poking out from the under-brush and Harry grins; his son is taking to the challenge like a duck to the water.

"Hmmm. Something of interest, General?" the curiosity in that voice is of a vexing kind, and Harry turns his head and watches as the vizier - who harbours hope to be Grand Vizier in the near future - flinches in response to the grin on his face.

"There is always something of interest in this life that I lead, Tarakis. Shall we return to continue the meeting?"

The meeting will be wrapped up and all the loose ends tied faster than the Council can stop to think. The treacheries of the treacherous have already been caught, though there are others that still remain. The man hides something still, and Harry is determined to find out what it is that slithers silently in the deepest recesses of the man's mind.

Loki is on his third note when Thor arrives in the dining hall for the midday meal. The coded message is the most difficult of the lot, and he has already gone through two hastily scrawled ciphers which had proved promising and then flopped uselessly when compared with his father's code.

The papers are carefully set into his inner pockets when the Prince roars his greetings to the entire hall. The guard accompanying the young Prince today is Volstagg - the Voluminous, as the jesting between guards go - and Hogun, who shadows the Guards as they go about their daily duties, observing and learning silently.

But there is someone new today, standing nearly completely behind Thor. Burnished gold hair cropped short, and with only one blue eye peeking out at him, it is something that seems familiar to Loki somehow. Not something, but a familiar face?

He stands from his seat, "Hello, my Prince. Volstagg, Hogun, and..."

Volstagg nudges the boy forward, but the boy literally jumps at the touch so Loki steps forward with one palm upturned, "I am Loki Haraldrson."

The boy swallows soundly, and Loki fortifies his smile when an unexpectedly clammy hand grasps his own, "Fandral."

Just a name, with no lineage in the introduction. Loki lets the matter be, and sets the questions away for later, because the Court seems to have finished with their meeting - his father is escorting Queen Frigga across the hall, and they make their way to the table in soft conversation.

Beyond the blue eyes and the blonde hair of the boy, Harry knows. That the boy shows that the blood from the House of Odin runs in his veins; a bastard son, though the label is something that leaves a foul aftertaste.

Fandral has been set up to gain the Prince's favour, and it will only be when the boy has made a name for himself as one of the steadfast friends of the Prince, that the father will step forward. The machinations of the Court is a cruel thing, and the House of Odin is the cruelest of the twelve in the never-ending struggle to stay in the King's favour.

 _To stay the top dog._

Frigga tightens her grip on his arm, and Harry turns his head to grin while continuing to escort her where the children sit, "Yes, my Queen?"

"Plotting something again, Haraldr, are you not?"

Harry gives a mournful look at her knowing expression, "Always so quick to suspect me of mischief, my Queen. I am wounded by your sharp suspicions. But... a special occasion is imminent, so how could I not?"

He sweeps her to the table before she can question him further, ruffles his godson's hair, and shares a grin with his son.

Loki laughs, delighted by the sight of his father crouching before him.

"Come on now, son of mine. I am already growing older by the moment," his father moans, and Loki jumps on the opportunity.

Literally. His father gives a loud oof, and lifts Loki up from waist to shoulders with a mighty 'heave-ho'. His hands are wrapped around his father's head, and Loki can feel the rumbles of his father's laughter against his own legs, "One day I will have to say no, little one. When you are far too big and far too heavy to ride on my shoulders."

Loki rises to thrilling heights when his father straightens, even higher than Dáinn's antlers.

"That one day is not today, Father," he points out, and is left giggling and breathless after a tickling session for his cheek.

"Show me what you have there, son."

His son grins, and Harry feels the swelling pride in himself. There is a pocket dimension sewn into the folds of his son's clothes, and Loki giggles when he pulls the items out of from the hems of shirt sleeves and inner pockets like a true magician.

First is a sulphurous rock from Asgard's healing springs, followed by a selection of stones from the crystallized caves of Asgard. The last is a long, white bone, picked clean and pocked all over with teeth marks - scavenged from the long-forgotten stashes of Odin's lupine familiars.

The smile is in his voice, "Well done."

Loki coaxes the fire to take hold, under the watchful eyes of his father. There are many other methods to produce fire - sparks to ignite tinder and subsequently kindling, friction to garner heat and smoke - but this is something on an infinitely smaller scale.

He has done this before, and he feels the slow bloom of heat and light in the cradle of his palm. His father gently guides his wrist to the flat dish where the bone lies, "Careful now. You need a little more air to sustain it. Feed in a little more seiðr as well."

Loki does so, and feels his father lift the flame to the bone. The flame grows a little brighter when his father handles it - taking well to the bone.

Father allows his hand to draw back away from the steadily growing flame. The heat of the flame is seemingly extinguished with a wave of his father's hand, and Loki looks on from the invisible shield as the white of the bone burns to the colour of midnight. His father motions with his palm, and Loki watches as an invisible hand wrought from seiðr presses upon it, the charred bone now nothing more than a little molehill of ash.

"This is known as _bone black_. Some of the ladies use it to line their eyes, and the artists and scribes use it for the stark black lines in their masterpieces and calligraphy. There are a great many uses for it as well, such as the removal of poisons, but today it will be none of those I've mentioned today."

Loki frowns, and his father merely ruffles his hair, "No sulking now, little one. I promise that there will be a worthy ending to this lesson."

Next are the rocks from both the cave and the healing springs, both crushed without ceremony with invisible tendrils of seiðr.

The fine powders are gathered into separate dishes, and his father shows him how to sort out the ratios of bone black to crystal to sulphur.

There is nothing magical about it, even when Loki is told to wrap tendrils around the mixture. He feels it in his mind's eye; the coarseness and grit, but then his father sends enough force between two grains to spark. He feels the ignition - sheer power in the form of light, heat and power, felt even through the barrier that his father has put up.

It is an inexplicable thing made explicable - his father telling him how some powders can become explosions, his magic as a third eye in showing him how the explosions come from the different types of piled dust when packed tightly.

There will be a celebration tonight - the start of an annual celebration that had been discontinued in the times of war. There is joy and anticipation, and Loki knows a secret. Loki runs ahead of his father, through the underbrush and onto the path that bisects the tiny plot of forest within the castle... right in front of the Queen.

Loki freezes, even though he knows that he should be greeting the Queen and her handmaidens.

There is a furrow between the Queen's brow, and Loki shrinks away from her outreached hand. She grasps his shoulder gently, and sweeps his cheek with her free hand. The finger comes away with a faint dusting of bone black, and the fingers that comb his hair comes away with more than a dead leaf, and Loki feels sheepishness at his state of presentation.

Frigga looks down onto Haraldr's son, pondering the events that could have led to the little boy turning up in the middle of the tiny orchard looking like a wayward child gallivanting in the mud and bushes, when Haraldr himself emerges from the forest looking no better. The giggle escapes her throat, unexpected but not unwelcome.

There are leaves hanging to his cloak and hair, breeches and boots stained with mud, and the same black powder staining his brow and fingers. This... Haraldr Hjortrson is a rare sight, a far cry from the immaculate General that most of Asgard normally sees, but many Realms better than the blood-stained version of the War General that Frigga has glimpsed before.

Loki escapes to his side, and Haraldr simply smirks at them before bowing. The bow is coupled with seiðr, which wipes away everything except for the wicked curve of lips and the devilment reflected in emeralds, "My Queen, and fair Ladies of the Court, pardon our quick departure, for we have much to accomplish tonight."

He straightens, leather and metal immaculate once again in the sunlight -a strong wind buffets the crown of the trees, and when Frigga looks back, both father and son have vanished along with the gust.

The young prince is now under the supervision of the scribes, and Hogun finally has the opportunity to sate his curiosity - provided that Volstagg can lift his head far enough from the spit-roasted boar. There has been nothing but excitement and anticipation flooding the halls for the entire week, and Hogun has reached his tolerance for Volstagg's knowing demeanour whenever a flurry of commotion resounds nearby.

"What... is this celebration about?"

There is a blatant smile on the elder guard's face, and Hogun very nearly regrets cracking under the strain of curiosity.

"Ah... The origin is unclear - the events happened long before my time, and there are precious few records that are allowed even to those residing within the Palace; and though we Ӕsir are long lived, but our memories are not. Some say that the celebrations are the result of a permanent truce with the Vanir or a great war won over another Realm, others say that it was the celebration of King Odin's brother coming into the world."

"There are no brothers to the King."

Volstagg grows somber, "As I said, it is naught but hearsay. It is taboo to venture further into this line of conversation - I merely share what I know of it."

Hogun's lips are pressed into a hard line, and he nods in acknowledgement.

The Prince has all the makings of a leader and a hero, Volstagg thinks, as he follows the children around on their 'adventures'. The young outlander Fandral is quickly pulled into Thor's paces as a partner in mischief and troublemaking. Loki is conspicuously absent from the adventures in the days of late, and the father-son duo have offered nothing but cryptic words and smiles to the soldiers - outside of the customary sound thrashings during the combat sessions with the soldiers.

It makes his brother in arms fearful of what is to happen as well, and Sigmarr had been exceptionally articulate in describing their thoughts: _"If one pint-sized personification of Chaos has created such trouble, then I fear what Hjortrson is capable of."_

He lets the two fair-haired boys run free into the Great Hall, keeping an eye on them long enough to make sure that they have reached the table where the King and Queen of Asgard are seated. His duty is done for now, and Volstagg makes a beeline for the table where his fellow guards have already started feasting.

Fandral thinks that he has never seen so much food in his life. There is an excess of it, all of the dishes seemingly competing with each other, mouth watering already just by appearance. This is not Asgardian fare, but Prince Thor seems to be used to the sheer volume and variety of it all.

The Allfather is at the head of the table, Prince Thor on one side, and Fandral right beside him. On the other side of the table sits the Queen, followed by a boy about the Prince's age - Loki, if Fandral recalls properly - and then the General Haraldr Hjortrson. The man stands out in the sheer tawny backdrop that is the great dining hall, as well as the festive colours that even the servants are wearing.

"The food is especially sumptuous tonight, Haraldr," the Queen's gentle tones draw Fandral's attention, and he directs his gaze from where Loki spears a piece of meat to feed his father, fist clenching as something in his heart tightens.

"Volstagg's critique is invaluable, despite the fact that he eats his weight in gold, and the kitchens have much experience in the mass preparation of meals, My Queen," he pays no further interest to the conversation - it is of no import in his report back to his... sire. The feast continues in its festivities, with drink and food all around - even on the floor and walls of the great hall.

Fandral has had enough of the food and sweet juices that run freely; the food sits in his stomach like a rock. But the hall quiets all of a sudden, and Fandral jerks his head toward the furthest end of the table. Men and women are looking just as confused as he, and though their mouths move, barely any sound is issued.

The Allfather stands at this moment, and makes an address to all in the Hall. His voice rings and echoes through the halls and through Fandral himself, proclaiming the might of Asgard and its peoples. The sheer prestige of standing at the top of Yggdrasil, protector of the weak and helpless.

It sounds true and convincing - but it is nothing more than a gilded lie. The weak and helpless are not present in these golden halls of Asgard to give voice to their plight; they scurry about in hidden passages and barely sustain themselves in the shadowed corners of the Realm.

The lies eventually end with the conclusion of the Allfather's speech - and the deafening cheer rises out of throats. There is movement that catches Fandral's eye then - Hjortrson's pointer finger directed towards the end of the hall.

Something shoots out, brighter than the starlight against the dark night. It leaves a falling tail of gold dust, silencing the crowd, and pings against the wall at the far end. There is something like panic and horror when the wall _shudders_ and _heaves_ , and there are frightened yells and shrieks when a golden bilgesnipe emerges from the walls.

It stands on thin air, shedding gold dust with each movement. It shakes enormous scaly horns, and bellows a deep guttural sound that Fandral has never heard from any creature before. Hooves thunder across the invisible platform as it rushes down the hall and out between the columns.

Everyone is frozen for a moment, but the Prince shouts and then scrambles out of his chair to follow the ethereal beast. The rest follow, and Fandral is dragged along with the Prince.

The bilgesnipe of molten gold _runs_.

Nimble feet pump the monstrous creature upwards, navigating some unseen cliff face. It stands at the top for a heartbeat, horns shaking at the sky, and then takes a leap. It is gone in a breathtaking shower of gold dust.

Loki counts down in his head, and grins when the first volley goes up, balls of tightly packed powder and metal dust flying higher than even the surrounding mountains. The walls are bathed in orange, and the falling lights briefly coalesce into the native creatures of Asgard. There are wolves and birds of prey that shimmer briefly, and the newer 'fireworks' quickly outshine those. There are sounds of surprise and awe as the crowd on the overhang below watch the dueling stags.

There is a hand on his hair, and his father whispers, "Looks much better than I imagined, right?" Loki giggles - it is many Realms different from the reedy scrawls that his father has drawn on parchment. Countless more sky explosions rumble through Asgard, but it is definitely the last one that is Loki's very favorite.

There is a winged serpent, resplendent in silver and emerald scales - the people cry _Níðhöggr!_ in voices of fear mixed with awe - that flies skyward, and shatters into a thousand million silver shards, floating downward like enchanted snowflakes. His eyes are caught by two in particular; shining brighter than all the others, and Loki places his hands together to cup them. They are cool to the touch, and when the light fades, his breath is caught in his chest, as his father whispers, "These are yours to wield."

They are the half of his father's famed quadruple daggers.

It is not to say that I do not appreciate reviews or criticism - but I have had quite enough on receiving flak about my writing style. Sometimes that one review just ruins my writing mood. Transliterations is a story where there is a lot of inference and certain things in current chapters will only become clear when future chapters are posted. I insert partial plot-lines into every chapter, because that is the only way that I can keep track of them - by reading through and vetting my own chapters.

In the case that the select few have not noticed, the start of every chapter has my personal disclaimer - that this is **my** story, and **I** write it the way **I** see fit. I simply do not have the luxury of time to write a story that you want to read - I merely set aside time in **my schedule** to write things that I would have liked to read. If you do not agree, it would be best that you not return to Transliterations as a reader.

 **Fixed: some missing words from the first few paragraphs. I swear ffnet has been eating the words from my document. Kudos to Travis for pointing it out.**


	14. Chapter 12

**A writer, I would fancy myself, if things would be. But take note, I do not write for others – I write for my own amusement, and my brand of storytelling is my own – I only share these worlds that I dream up.**

" _Cursed is the man who dies, but the evil done by him survives."_

 **Abu Bakr**

It is beyond rarity that his father is dressed like this in the hours nearing the mid-day meal - barefoot and soft fabric rather than shining metal and gleaming leather - but they are within the confines of the suite of his father's rooms. Perhaps they will not be heading out to share a meal with the Queen. His father begins to speak, and Loki pays attention, "An illusion is a difficult thing to describe - hardly enough words to transmit the inner workings of such seiðr. It is very nearly non-existent; and yet it is reality in itself." Perhaps the lesson means that they will not be joining the Queen for a meal, after all.

Fingers start to weave, and there is the palpable hum of seiðr in the air, "No true physical body, but the mind sees true depth and substance in it. Good illusions are the ones that fool both mind and body..."

Outside, the sky begins to brighten as if the cloudy skies overhead have begun to clear. His father steps onto the balcony, and Loki follows. The strange thing is that the sun has melted into the clouds, and everything overhead glows with the gold of sunshine.

The clouds begin to let loose their burden, sunshine trapped in each and every drop, "and the best ones are the ones that draw the mind to furnish its own details."

Soothing and warm seiðr, leaving a golden tinge to his fingers, and wherever the water has touched.

"Come on now, it is time to leave for the hall to have our meal," Loki turns to look at his father, who is already dressed - black leather artfully outlined in gold armour - and a smirk on his lips. There is still the remnants of seiðr swirling in his father's eyes, making them an enchanting mix of tawny gold and green.

He knows then and there, with wide eyes trailing over the immaculate leather and tiny illusory snarling dragons etched in the metal, that illusions are his favourite type of seiðr.

From somewhere overhead, a bird takes flight, scattering light and shadows across the floor in its wake.

Loki mirrors his father's movements as they move through the forest; slow footfalls in the moist undergrowth. The air is thick, heavy with forest life and decay, and there are many signs if one knows where to look - a series of broken branches, a shimmering hair or two on the bark and branches where their prey has brushed against. Crushed leaf litter where hooves have trampled over them.

There is something to be said about the experience of stalking prey through the wilderness, but Loki cannot give enough focus to give life to those words - concentration is the key in maintaining his silence and attention while Father notches the arrow and draws the string taut. Loki breathes in and watches the perfect stance of his father. He already knows how it is done, but there are no bows his size that Loki can use yet.

 _This arm should be locked straight._

 _Two fingers brushing his cheek - you pull till here_

 _Breathe in, and then out - keep those lungs half-filled when you release the arrow_

The whip of the string past his cheek, the arrow flying straight and true, and Harry can see the slight wobbles of the arrow shaft as it cuts through the air. The razor edges of the arrowhead bite into the hide of the doe, and she falls in stunned silence amidst the crush of leaves as the rest of the herd bolts.

There is an intake of breath from his son, who has never seen a true kill take place before.

But the arrow has not delivered her a quick and painless death, as she begins to thrash weakly in the undergrowth. His father makes his way through the undergrowth like a great cat, and Loki can only watch as he straddles the doe where the neck and shoulder meet. He whispers words of gratitude and thanks to the female deer, kind and gentle. She relaxes, and Loki feels the awe chill his skin.

It is as if she knows that her time has come. And it has, for her coat has slivers of gray hair. She has probably birthed many of her own young, and brought them to maturity. The death blow is a tap to the head made from a moderate dose of lightning to the brain, turning living flesh into nothing more than fresh meat. There will be no disrespect when it comes to her carcass - the bones will be stripped clean of meat, and be given to the familiars in the kennels, the meat along with the sinew and intestines to the kitchens.

The hide will belong to Loki; now that his father's armour is finally complete again, having been lost at Skornheim. The hide of this doe is a gift from his father, and Loki will be expected to finish the rest of his armour with each hunt. It will make his first piece of armour; a set of vambraces probably, likely to be nothing quite so detailed as Father's, because Loki is quickly gaining on Prince Thor's height, and a long ways to go before he reaches his father's height. Whatever armour that Loki will have will be serviceable and easily recycled.

A small part of him is still properly horrified at seeing a deer get shot down, because he has spent all seven years of his life roughhousing with Dáinn. But Dáinn is one of a kind, and Loki suspects that no one could catch the stag if he did not want anyone to - he has seen his father's familiar appear out of nowhere in a room with closed doors before.

Loki retrieves the arrow from the still-warm body, and takes his father's bow and quiver as his father hefts the sizeable carcass onto one shoulder. It is the way of life in this world - Father has always said that death paves the path of life.

His father's hand is a comforting weight on his shoulder, "It will take many years yet, but this marks the first step, little one."

There are secret passages within the winding paths of the castle, and Loki knows how to search for them. He has had much practice with the ones outside his father's suite of rooms, watching as his father had demonstrated the use of paper-thin tendrils of seiðr to seek the gaps between well-concealed doors.

The trapdoor that his son has uncovered is one that leads to... unpleasant memories. It is located in an alcove that is not mirrored in the lower floors - a pathway straight into the underground reaches of the palace, where the ancient dungeons steep in absolute silence and blinding light. He knows, because he has... been accomodated this particular place for a time.

It is a perilous drop; each opposite wall no more than a meter in width, with no handholds in between the quarter-league distance, so he stops Loki from standing too close to the edge, and instead has his son investigate the depth of the construct with his magic.

There is a shudder down his spine when he discovers the true depth of the shaft. There is hardly any space to move about, and the walls are musty with dust. It bottoms out into a wide area, all straight lines and right angles.

"There... is a room down this hole?"

"Not a room, my son. It leads to the dungeons - the deepest part of Asgard. It is an ancient one, built by Odin Allfather's grandfather, Buri." It seems impossible, that there was a previous Allfather before Odin Allfather.

"Are there still people in the dungeons?"

"Yes. Sometimes there are many. Intruders from other Realms, and fantastic beasts of lethal persuasion. Few who are thrown into these dungeons have managed to escape and tell the tale."

They find another hidden passage after that, mostly for servants, it seems; the pathways prove a challenge for even the slimmest of soldiers to pass through. They make a game of it - Loki races his father through those hallways, and _wins_.

Harry sighs as the young Prince picks himself up, and begins sprinting toward him again. They have been at this for the past fifteen tries, but the approach has barely changed; Thor has tenacity, but none of the finesse when it comes to sparring or improvisation. The eight year old is strong and tall for his age, and has just a tiny bit more strength with each try. He sidesteps, trips Thor once more, and holds him facedown onto the mat, "Calm down, little Prince."

But Thor only roars, lifting himself up by a tiny fraction even with Harry's weight on him. There is the blood of berserkers that runs in those veins; the odds of Odin beating Laufey in physical combat would have been impossible otherwise. There are a few ways to break them out of the thick cloud of rage, thankfully. A moment is all it takes to weave a temporary spell that snuffs out sight and sense out of the equation, but it will take Thor more than a few centuries of training to suppress the berserker within him, unassisted.

Suddenly the world is quiet. Thor blinks, startled by the texture of the sparring mat on his cheek. There is a firm hand on the back of his neck, a pressing weight on his back, and a stern voice, "Can you hear me now, Thor?"

The question is simple, but it takes Thor a little bit to find his voice again, "Yes, Guðfaðirinn."

His godfather lets him up, and Thor is struck by the sight of the torn matting under his feet. Some tiny clawed creature has wreaked havoc, it seems. The rest of the room is still eerily quiet, and with a wave of his godfather's hand, the sound returns - birdsong, clashing of swords in the clearing somewhere outside on the sparring grounds. It is only afterward that Thor realises what has happened, after his godfather has seated him down to tend to his broken and bleeding fingernails; there was not a single creature with claws - the only people inside that room had been himself and his godfather.

Thor is at most times a carefree child, warm as sunshine and cheerful smiles. But today, her little bright sun has fallen into disquiet for an entire evening. He rests in her lap now, fingering the embroidery on her silk dress. She brushes strands of gold from her son's forehead, smoothing away the furrows that she finds there.

Green eyes turn to the window, "The heritage of his forefathers is strong in him. He is young yet, and he will find it a challenge to curb the bloodlust."

Haraldr has described the episodes of bloodlust - blood roaring louder than a thousand of Asgard's falls, and an insurmountable rage that hazes over thought. It is an affliction that has singlehandedly wrought stories of great tragedy.

And it is a horror that her son will have to live through. Her fingers comb through shimmering gold, and she watches as Thor sighs in relief. Not yet. Not yet. There is still time. She will not lose him yet.

The dreams still cling, even now.

 _A young man, standing fearlessly where the flying Dvergar-forged blades will converge._

 _She cannot see his face, but the crippling horror is telling._

Loki is eight when he manages his first illusion. His skin has turned from pale to something sun kissed and freckled, and when he brings a lock of hair to his eyes, they are colour of the leaves in autumn. No one lends him more than a second glance when he joins the small crowd waiting to welcome the latest entourage back home. He pushes himself to the front of the crowd, cheeks starting to ache at his grin of anticipation.

 _His heart doesn't skip a beat; it stops dead in his tracks just like the air in his lungs, the rest of the world tilts on an abrupt axis. His little Lily Luna looks at him, wide grin and flushed cheeks. But the moment is broken when someone brushes against his shoulder._

There is a pause before his father's eyes narrow, and Loki giggles when he is picked up, "Did you really think that I would not notice, my little chaos maker? Your trick was well done, Loki, but you forgot to turn the colour of your eyes, and change your clothes."

Loki looks at his clothes, where the colours of his tunic are inlaid with silver and gold in customized design, and then at his father… who seems a little sad.

There is a cure for things like this, Loki knows, and he hugs tighter around his father's neck, "I missed you," before drawing away and sliding down quickly from his father. He watches his father's face contort as the little golden lizard that Loki has slipped down the high collar of his father's armour makes its presence known.

There is a chase down the hallways, albeit a short one; it is hard to run when wheezing with laughter.

Thor is drowsing half-sprawled on Dáinn, one hand anchored to the warm horns of his mount when he sees his reflection walking toward him. He startles awake, losing his balance on the broad back of the stag. It is comical, but Harry strains to smother the growing grin on his face and pretends to be working on his priorities when the young prince can do nothing but gape silently.

What Thor does not realise is that his mirror image is not as quite as tall as him, and that the colours of his station are not properly represented. All in all, unless the observer is well acquainted with the young Prince, the differences are only obvious at the third glance that something is amiss.

There is a yell, Thor scrambling to subdue his doppelganger, and a thundering of hooves, Dáinn to the rescue of the 'impostor' from the real prince.

Thor is excited, as he sees his twin wave back at him. They part ways there, eager to confuse Thor's personal guard. Thor races down the parallel hallway, only to run into Volstagg and Hogun alone. Dáinn is around the corner, shaking his horns in agitation. They stop him, with the oddest expression on their face - relief. Thor is escorted to his mother's halls right at once, where even his mother is flustered at his appearance.

The resulting confusion is well-done, but it is only after the sun has long set that Thor realises that he never did see his blond-haired green-eyed twin.

He repeats the words of his childhood in his head.

 _You are mindless._

 _You are_ _ **soulless.**_

 _You exist to right the wrongs dealt to your family._

It is true. It is the absolute fact.

The patrols within the palace have been tripled, but it is of no use; the true perpetrators will never be caught so long as the guards are busy nabbing the decoy infiltrators. The hostage has already been spirited from Asgard for half a day, and even the King's watchdog will have difficulty in sniffing the trail.

He doesn't expect to get away scot-free - but there will be enough time to ensure that the event goes the way it should.

 _The vendetta will be fulfilled._

He repeats his mantra.

Repeats it again and again, ignoring the falter in his words, smothers the growing wretchedness in his heart and the mournful green of his General's eyes even when it is announced that young Loki has been kidnapped instead of the original target. It is alright, because the Shadow General is an indispensable asset to the King and Queen and all of Asgard. Either boy would have ensured that justice was delivered, a story of vengeance that has been seven generations in the making.

Yggdrasil is ultimately not a tree - it a plane of existence composed of an enormous number of intersecting spaces. It seems as though the kidnappers have found one such path into Asgard, stepping out of Asgard's plane of existence as easily as walking out a door.

Harry forces himself to focus on his task - Dáinn is also searching for routes that the kidnappers might have taken, out in the forest. They have already made off with his son for more than half a day,and time is of the essence.

The General increases the intensity of the crease on his brow, and Skárison looks on as emeralds begin to sweep the room. He cannot bear to be in the room any longer, pretending to panic over the little mischief maker that he has grown fond of, and begins to cut across the room.

He walks past Hjortrson, and meets the man's eyes for a fraction of a moment. His step falters with his gaze, and the contact is broken. Hjortrson's arm whips out to clasp his shoulder, and Skárison feels his heart start to jump rapidly.

 _He knows. He knows._

"Ránulfr Skárison. I would like to have words with you."

He should have realised it. Ránulfr Skárison, far descendant of Skári Ránulfrson. The man that he had sent to his death so long ago. The shoulder under Harry's hand begins to shake as the man convulses, and Harry exerts a little more force in guiding the man into the small room.

There is a deep seated trauma in the seasoned soldier before him, but this is no time to cater to the man, however misguided, who has had a major role in the kidnapping of his son.

"Ránulfr."

The man turns away from him, muttering incoherencies to himself. Harry grimaces at the alternative that he must take, and takes a fortifying breath. It is just as well - he can verify that his experimentations have come to fruition.

" _Rán."_

 _He jerks at the feminine voice, and looks up to see his mothe- no -Mistress of the House. She is smiling that sad smile of hers again, with her at the table and him on the floor, polishing the tiles with his rag. The moment is broken when the Head Servant of the House bustles into the room and drags him away by the arm. His last glance of her is always over his shoulder, and her features are always strikingly beautiful in Asgard's golden sunlight._

 _And she always looks so, so sad._

Ránulfr blinks. He is no longer five, and has not been five for a long long time. But the Mistress of the House is still standing before him, sad smile on her face. He longs to assure her that everything is alright, that he is well and no longer under the punishing thumb of the wretched Head Servant. That he has accomplished his infiltration into Asgard's palace, and no longer cowers under his Sire's gaze.

He has fulfilled his purpose.

And now, it is time for him to say goodbye to her. She is smiling at him, no longer that sad smile that stabs at his heart.

 _Goodbye, Mother._

The disorient is greater than expected, and even with the mind-clearing spells that he has devised, he has barely been able to stop Ránulfr Skárison from sucessfully attempting to run himself through the heart with a long blade. It is chilling to know that Skárison is a twisted product of a deep-seated feud and life-long brainwashing, the former caused by his actions from so long ago. But there is no time; though he knows the name and face of the perpetrators, he has yet to track them down.

The door opens, and Sigmarr stands at attention. Skárison nearly falls out the door, limp body only kept upright by the General's firm grip at the upper arm. Sigmarr rushes to help, but Hjotrson merely commands the sobbing soldier to stand on his own with a gentle voice and an odd inflection, and Skárison does so.

"Send him to the Healers, but strip him of any weapons now. He is… not well. Tell the Healers that there should be… measures to stop him from biting his tongue into two."

It is very nearly impossible that the steely Skárison that Sigmarr knows would attempt to end his own life, but then Sigmarr sees the trembling fingers of his fellow brother in arms, the sluggishly bleeding wound on his chest, and the long blade on the floor. Hjortson's fingers are dripping fresh blood. It only takes a moment to match their wounds and positions.

There is a grim expression on the General's face, but something on his face softens when he regards the two of them, "Make sure that he is attended to. I will be leaving soon."

"Haraldr Hjortrson."

"Heimdall." The sound from Hjortrson's throat is tight, and the anguished green kills all of the words of apology that have been lingering on his mind.

Heimdall sees. He is not omnipotent; a pair of eyes is not even enough to look through all the tiny corners of one Realm, let alone all of the Nine. He has priorities; the royal blood has always taken precedence over matters, and by the time he could turn his vision onto the kidnappers, there was nothing left but dusty footsteps, their owners having vanished mid-step. There is strangeness at work, for he can neither see the paths that they have taken nor gaze upon where Loki has been brought. The General brushes fingers over Hǫfuð, and one of Yggdrasil's many branches come to life. The man lets go of Heimdall's sword, and disappears without another word, but the afterimage of the poison green gaze lingers.

"The General has already left Asgard to search for his son," is all Heimdall says by way of greeting when Sigmarr makes his way to the console of the Bifröst. Any further questions are not entertained by the Guardian of the Gate, and Sigmarr feels the frustration well up as Heimdall turns his full attention to the other going-ons in the other Realms.

They are too late.

His head throbs, his throat feels swollen, and his limbs are folded by the tight fabric on all sides. There is a foul smell about, and his surroundings move back and forth like an endless pendulum. He does not quite remember how he got here, only that he was pulling a prank on Volstagg and Hogun when he was grabbed from behind.

There is a surge of panic in his throat, but Loki catches his sob when he hears the voices speak, "You would think that the brat Prince would have weighed a little heavier, with those apples of them."

"Well, you thought wrong, you halfwit. Æsir children are not given a whole fruit of Iðunn's crop before they turn a decade. You spent longer than anyone living in that place, you know," a snide voice replies the first.

"You both would do well to keep your gabs shut about the subject of the… esteemed royalty. He is not able to See us now, but he is not deaf."

The men fall silent, and Loki surrenders to the darkness of his dark fabric cage.

The journey from where they stand and where they must be is made countless times longer by the winding paths that snake around the Tree. It is a necessary detour; it keeps the Gatekeeper of Asgard searching constantly, and there is even the slight chance that their destination will overlooked as the places have been searched before by Heimdall.

And yet, the journey must be made in haste - he does not know how long an unenhanced Æsir child can survive this particular sort of unpleasantness.

He holds no love for this place and its people - they speak of futures like they have already passed, and pasts like they have yet to be - but he holds no disdain for them either. The Nornir hold their gifts as blessings and curses of the greatest order. None of them walk the path of sanity, not when one sees the prosperity and downfall of every living being across all possibilities of the universe.

But still, he listens with what little attention that he can spare.

In one reality, Níðhöggr succeeds in felling the World Tree by devouring all of its roots. In another, the Realms bring all to ruin in a great war. There is an interesting one, telling of a dark man - most likely Harry himself, from the way the descriptors go, even if there is no name - who _burns_ all of the Realms to cinders.

So many ends to the World Tree, and only one name - they call it Ragnarøkkr, twilight of the gods.

All of these are stories of Death, who precedes Life. The Realms live on regardless; a seedling of Yggdrasil flourishes, the survivors pick themselves up, like a phoenix from the ashes. But the last story is of a demon, which kills the trees and harvests agony from the forest, leaving death and decay and no hope of redemption.

In that story, there is no rousing story of the triumph of Life.

"What has been, what will be, what has to be," the three voices are in sync, melodious even.

"Hello, Urðr, Verðandi, Skuld."

Soulless eyes turn upon him, mere vessels of the power that holds the rest of the Seers in constant trance in Nornheim, "You have come, as we have seen. As we see now. As we will have seen."

"We have your bounty, and you have our reward."

There is a writhing sack on the floor, the lump is just about the right size for a child. Bitterhand eyes it and the men in turn; he would be a fool of the greatest caliber, were he to pay these three men such a high price without seeing the merchandise.

"Your payment will be exchanged once I have confirmed his identity."

"But the Gatekeeper will see-"

Bitterhand waves his hand and the seiðr forms a dark veil over them, "He will see nothing that passes under this veil. Be quick about it, the spell will only hold for twenty heartbeats."

It turns out that the brat of a Prince that they have kidnapped is not the Golden Prince of Asgard, after all. What tumbles out of the bag is an imp with hair the colour of sooty ash, skin the colour of moonlight.

The floor is cool to the touch, and there is light that flickers. Loki opens his eyes, only to shut them tightly at the incredulous holler of the men.

That hair. The colour of those eyes. The pallor of the skin. There is something like a potent mix of thrill and fear when Bitterhand realises the identity of the boy before him. The sputters of the trio who swear that it was Thor Odinson that was in the bag are barely noticed over his own shock and horror.

They turn to run, cowards and thieves that they are - it is of no matter; their payment is forfeit, and this unexpected situation will not affect their plan at all. There is silence, and then the gurgle of screams.

Bitterhand turns to Wormwood, who has finished his task of killing all other witnesses. The boy whimpers at the sight of the bloodstained blade, and Bitterhand smiles. It seems that the gold reward will not need to be cleansed of blood, after all.

Harry looks at the grand tapestry. It is a great thing, and the Norns tell him that it records all the events that have thus far passed in this plane of reality. There are no words or pictures, just a riot of colours - threads woven together in a forever tangle.

The words ride in a carousel in his mind, echoing relentlessly. All he can do is wait. And as he does so, his time runs short.

 _Entangled are the prophecies._

 _The Fate, the Present, and the Future._

 _The Word, the Debt, and the Payment_

 **A/N:**

 **Much obliged to those who have sent a kind message or two in support.**

 **A few canon characters from Marvel added in here for plot development. Transliterations is finally where it was before the revamp, and I am still filling in the spaces from here to the outline.**

 **It's been a while since I last posted, but right now the roads are a little rocky for me - with several events going on. There will be an inevitable career transition in the year ahead once my current responsibility ends, and I do not quite know where I will be (figuratively and geographically speaking) when the matters are settled.**

A/N 10/6/2014:

Added an interlude that was overlooked in the overhaul.


	15. Chapter 13

**A writer, I would fancy myself, if things would be. But take note, I do not write for others – I write for my own amusement, and my brand of storytelling is my own – I only share these worlds that I dream up.**

 **Prophecies are predictions, whereas destiny is unavoidable.**

 **And the Fates are three women who spin the threads.**

There is peace in isolation.

The weather is fair and warm - the stars scattered overhead can hardly be seen beyond the clouds, and in the forest the light spills in through the verdant cover. Birdsong is prevalent as Freyr searches the forest for something to occupy himself.

But it is not an easy task, and he falters when he catches sight of the empty skies - there is anxiety in his pseudo-exile. There had been word that the Prince has been snatched away from within the Palace, and then nothing else followed. The hawk had merely dropped the missive and left - never a good sign, for it means that the resources are being exhausted just from the spread of word. He cannot even fathom the distress that his sisters are in, in the glaring absence of his nephew.

He has waited in the clearing for an indeterminable amount of time, in plain view. There is a rustle of undergrowth, and Freyr turns to see the white stag leap over his sister's plot of well-tended herbs.

There is a piece of parchment tied around the base of one white antler, secured with a black string. The paper glimmers a light shade of emerald when Freyr reaches to touch it, and the string dissolves into nothing. The script is in Haraldr's peculiar hand - the slant and flow of the letters has always been strange and ornate to Freyr:

 _usurpers through puppets_

 _blood tainted with intentions_

The words slip off the paper like water, and something else begins to slither onto the parchment. The lines are solid and strong, and the shape that they take on is unmistakable - the map of the palace.

The meaning is clear when he sees the movement of little dots passing through the demarcations. Some are marked red, and all of those crimson markers have names moving right beside them.

Freyr cannot help but grin at the task that his brother has tasked him - _the hunt is on_.

He checks the map, feeling relief as he sees the names of both his sisters and his nephew huddled together in Fensalir. But as Dáinn brings him over the underbrush in a fluid manner, there is a cold rock sitting heavy in his gut. The relief is short lived - Haraldr and Loki are nowhere to be seen on the map, no matter how many times he checks the map.

They have quite the road to traverse to their meeting location with Grendell, who is immobile in order to maintain the portal between this Realm and their Home Realm. The tiny child whimpers. Bitterhand has half a mind to shut the child up _for good_ , but that would mean incurring the wrath of their Lord when they finally present their hostage lifeless and glassy-eyed.

No amount of flourishes would stay Lord Malekith's hand then.

Hjortrson's son is quickly shoved back into the bag, and Wormwood handles the burden while Bitterhand leads the trek.

The smell of blood still lingers, and Loki shudders at the memory. It is different from the systematic butchering of wild game, and Loki remembers the liquid flow of blood reaching even the ceiling amidst the strangled cries.

He knows that the men are Dökkálfar, but nothing more than that one little fact, because the men have been careful not to talk. He must be brave, even though he is scared and the tears are escaping from the corners of his eyes. He must be brave and wait and believe. If there is a chance he must take it. His father has told him so before.

There is a sudden tingle that runs through his blood, and Harry strains to feel it better. There is something right beside the collection in his pocket dimension, and then he recognises the signature - Ivaldi's dagger, trapped between two realities.

He has barely managed to get a sense of the clue when it vanishes to where it came from.

Grendell's snarl of outrage is as furious as it is sudden, "You _fools_."

They stop dead - Bitterhand is frozen in the act of hefting a bag, while Wormwood is preparing their basic supplies for the drop back into Svartálfar. They watch as Grendell stalks toward their fragile captive.

The wall shudders when the boy is pinned across the jagged surface, and his whimpers can barely be heard over the hissing of words, "You have failed in even _comprehending_ the capabilities of Hjortrson's whelp."

Grendell slashes in the air with his free hand, and Bitterhand follows the silver movement as it shoots across and embeds itself in the far wall. For a moment, Bitterhand feels paralyzed: the knife has sunk into the wall up to the hilt as if it were merely soft snow, but the walls in this particular cavern are made from impenetrable crystal.

Grendell delivers a quick blow to the temple, knocking the child out, "We must _go_. The brat has activated some sort of seiðr beyond my understanding." There is urgency in his words, and they do not hesitate to follow - here in the between of Realms, they are unprotected and unprepared to face Hjortrson in this unfamiliar territory.

He would have never found this raggedy road between the Realms. It is hidden from the senses as much as possible, and only his searching tendrils of seiðr have made it possible. But the omen that had settled his sneaking suspicion was because She had lingered. The high tunnel ceiling is perpetually shrouded in darkness, and the caverns are nearly untouched. The kidnappers are good at covering their tracks, but there are signs of hastiness.

The stalactites are dripping blood.

There is an abstract chaos in the form of spattered red globules; whoever has done this has great skill in concealing his tracks, but far too little time to do a proper job. Harry takes solace in the morbid fact that there is far too much blood splattered on the ceiling to be his son's death.

Loki's captors have led him on an extensive chase through no less than five Realms and far too much backtracking, but exhaustion is a mere suggestion. With every step grows an insurmountable determination to exact revenge, to make them _pay_.

He can sense the seiðr that bridges this Realm to the next, and though he can feel that nothing good waits behind the portal, he strides across. They are prepared to trap him, and he should at least acknowledge the effort.

It is a complicated breed of _living_ spellwork that forces its tendrils on all sides. It is suffocating, and there are a confusing labyrinth of mind spells woven into the fabric. An insidious self-sustaining spell, made to leach life.

There is only so much that the spell can absorb from him, the staggering surplus of life energy from Iðunn's apples, but his heart drops when he turns to inspect a dim corner of his prison where Death stands with her head tilted to the floor.

 _Loki_.

No.

No.

 _No no no no no no no._

Death retreats to the furthest corner, but Harry does not feel any less relieved. What little exposed skin is cold and coloured with bruises all over, the protective spells woven into the fabric already frayed and nothing more than loose threads. Denial is a constant mantra in his head, and when he turns his son from his facedown position, Harry is nearly numb at the sight of his son's face.

Intermingled with tear stains and dirt are tear tracks, but what stokes his growing rage into an inferno are the thick black cords that bind Loki's mouth shut.

Loki does not realise that he is cold until he feels the mild warmth all around him. There is a hand gentle on his cheek, and he hears the voice that he has heard for all his life. His father sends a song of warmth into his bones, and Loki feels better. A song of protection against the cold, and Loki feels the warmth better now.

He tries to call out to his father in the darkness, but sharp pain stabs into his lips a hundred times. The song stops, and his father murmurs an apology into his ear. "Hush, _my heart_. Sleep. All will be well."

There are fingers that comb through his hair, and Loki feels the comfort of sleep. There is warmth that splashes on his cheek, and it turns cold as it travels downward.

Loki falls asleep to the sound of his father's heartbeat.

Freyr is a williwaw of fury that stuns the guards into inaction as he storms past the entrance to the palace. Lifting a sword against him would take impossible courage and skill - he is the only brother of the Queen and Lady Freyja, heir of Lord Njörðr, and the sword that he wields is made from special enchantments. There are rumors that Haraldr Hjortrson has crafted the sword himself, for no other sword has the ability to deflect every blade and claim lives with such ease.

There is another being that lends reluctance in Asgard's warriors from even trying to apprehend Freyr - the White Stag of the Shadow General leads the way.

Those who submit are quickly held immobile with rope, those who fight are quickly disabled with crippling but non-fatal sword wounds to the tendons. Those who _attempt_ to run… are quickly trampled or gored in the ghastliest of fashions.

Volstagg shudders as Dáinn flicks his antlers of excess crimson - Hjortrson's rage shows even when he is away from Asgard.

 _You just choose not to realise, Haraldr. But the time will come._

 _It will find you, and you will know enlightenment._

 _You will have to make a choice._

 _And you will have to be strong enough to bear it._

Strong as the wards are, they are fading in the face of the spell. The spellwork prison has what seems to be a Svartálfarian base; fortified with knowledge far too ancient for Asgard's vast archives to have a foothold on.

There is one conclusion that he has arrived at so far, and the consequence is something that chills his blood, to the marrow even. The only thing that he knows will escape the trap for sure is a dead body -

 _I can see her._

\- and Death hovers close.

 **A/N 1: This chapter is short, because of fragmentation for easier reading.**

 **A/N 2: I've made it clear before, but some of my author's notes have been lost through the revamp:**

 **1\. 'Transliterations' is a mash-up between three different settings - MCU, HP, and Norse Mythology - and one should not expect this story to be comparable to instant coffee. I am still building on the Transliterations background, and have yet to get to the 'action'.**

 **2\. Although I consider myself to be passably fluent, I am not a native speaker of English by any means, and hope that readers understand that a language is a flexible thing that differs by location. If there is a glaring mistake in that which I have written, please kindly point it out. I have also noticed that the document upload eats words from my sentences, but I am unable to find them all sometimes.**


	16. Interlude 3

**A writer, I would fancy myself, if things would be. But take note, I do not write for others – I write for my own amusement, and my brand of storytelling is my own – I only share these worlds that I dream up.**

 _ **Silvertongue**_

 _Proverbs 10:20 – someone who is just, and upright in word and deed_

Though the fold-lines are well defined along with the foxing edges, the paper has been well cared for. His fingers tense carelessly after reading the words, and the crinkles in it conform to his fingers perfectly. The paper is an exquisite craftsmanship in itself, and the ink on it is made from pure crushed obsidian.

It is Ivaldi's handwriting. The words have been penned long ago, Harry thinks, from just before Ivaldi became fully blind. But it is the very message that is unexpected, because it comes by Death's hand. She disappeared the moment she left the letter in his hand.

 _ **I can see her.**_

He steps from Asgard into Niðavellir in the blink of an eye, and regains his footing on a mountain where its veins of precious crystal have been bled dry by industrious hands. The paper flutters in his hand, and Harry looks at it again.

He remembers an exchange of words with Ivaldi, many decades past now.

 _"I will see you again, soon."_

 _"I will come when you send word, then, Master Ivaldi."_

 _"I will not send word. You will know."_

 _"What do you mea-"_

 _"You will know."_

There is no hum of light cutting into matter, even though Ivaldi has strained his ears to listen for the Asbrú. All that he hears is the quiet crackle of the forge fire and the breaths of one of his many sons. Many sons, but not all of them are suited to shape metal and carve rock. Far too young to understand the true weight of blades that have edges thinner than what the eye can see.

Of course, the message has only just been sent out, and he has no idea how long it will take for Haraldr to make preparations to travel to Niðavellir on short notice. But just as the thought is finished, he feels the swathe of seiðr colouring one of the depleted mines far outside of Harkalegasta.

Ivaldi smiles and listens to the footsteps come closer with every step - _his quietus has come_.

Doors swing open, and Ivaldi thinks that he can feel the hesitance in Haraldr's full lungs. There is yet another moment of consideration before the long exhale, and Ivaldi smiles. There is the swish of leather near his bedside, and he angles his head toward where the feared General of Asgard should be.

"You can see her." It is not a question, not a statement. It is a confirmation of the words on that piece of paper.

"Not quite. Even then, it was… vague. And then not since my sight was fully lost."

"You… can hear her?"

"A voice that compliments the stars, that Lady of yours." And it is true. Sometimes he can hear her words but there has been not a single time that he has held on to the intentions and connotations. The magnitude of her presence is too much, but now that he is fading from this world, he can feel her all the better. Her sighs and hums press him to tell Haraldr what little he knows.

A soft sigh is all Haraldr releases, but Ivaldi can feel the weight of the situation that rests upon shoulders.

"Tell me, Haraldr. What do you know of the Word, the Debt and the Payment?"

"Nothing of it at all, Master Ivaldi."

Ivaldi merely hums in reply, and a shiver goes up Harry's spine; it sounds eerily like Her.

She does not take a step closer, remaining in the corner furthest away from the corner where Ivaldi's bed has been set up. Harry can pick up the faintest smell of rot from his breath and the falter of his failing heart, but the man won't go yet.

"Have you ever heard of _draumur veiðar_?"

The master smith calls it 'dream fishing', and Harry has never heard of such a thing in Asgard.

Ivaldi clears his throat, "It is a rite of passage for us Dvergar. The beginnings of it are long lost, but the fact remains that children have logic and reason that are detached from the world. Young of heart... and young in mind, perhaps it is in the nature of innocent minds to know not the limitations that adults have."

"It shapes us to be who we are, and who we will be. My people have retained a fragment of it, but with each generation, the secret dies a little more," there is a heavy sigh, "for the message fragments a little more. I fear that this is a tradition that will die out within the next three generations."

"Perhaps," his voice holds a measure of deep regret, "it is due to how we Dvergar have changed. What little worth we have now has been whittled away. We are better known as the enablers of bloodshed in Yggdrasil now."

Blind eyes turn toward him, "Grant me the boon that you have always offered, Haraldr Hjortrson. I will not rest in peace until I meet what I have been running away from."

"I fear what you will unburden upon me, Ivaldi," is what Haraldr says, but the steps come closer all the same. There is a hand over his eyes, and Ivaldi feels the scar tissue on the palm. Warmth gently seeps into his eyes, not like the stabbing pain that Ivaldi has always anticipated during the regeneration of his failing flesh.

There is no pain, just a growing joy at seeing light, colour and texture.

The star-fire from the forge illuminates the man whom he has always known to be sharp of wit and cunning. The colours of his leather are something that Ivaldi knows to be uncommon in Asgard, and Ivaldi has a frisson of fear that this seemingly young man is an imposter set to kill him on his death bed.

His vision clears, and Ivaldi relaxes. Within those green eyes lie the sharp sorrow and regret that betrays Haraldr's apparent age.

Ivaldi smiles, baring mostly gum and a few teeth, "It is good to finally see you, my friend."

Haraldr smiles in return, "It is good to be seen, Master Ivaldi."

Ivaldi's eyes travel down from the haunted green eyes to where one hand is rubbing away at the scar on the other palm. It is a nervous habit, for those hurt in ways deeper than the physical flesh, and Ivaldi feels the tiny pieces click into place.

"I had _heard_ of rumors that the Allfather had blooded a brother… but what I _know_ is the the Allfather is mendacious at most times when it comes to such things."

There is a smile upon his lips, "And I have learnt so... the hard way, it seems. I may go as far as I want, but I cannot ignore the summons when it runs through my blood - an effective leash. I am offered draughts of poison and gifted with sharpened shards into my heart. Sent on quests that would kill anyone else - success or not, Asgard stands to gain. The bounty on my head grows, and the only Realms with large enough coffers to back the reward are Asgard and Niðavellir."

Ivaldi feels his smile freeze, and shakes his head. Haraldr Hjortrson is a being that no Dvergar would dare willingly cross.

"One day, these meaningless trials and tribulations will end. The Asgardians have a propensity for forgetting anything else than a love for war," is what Ivaldi says, but Haraldr is not so easily moved. "Resignation is defeat, Haraldr. We are all beings that have been enabled with the ability to overcome our limitations. And here I lie, at the dusk… I have seen all that I can see, and lived all that I have lived… and in hindsight, there have been things that I have achieved that could not have been done without belief, time and effort."

"If there is a will, there is a way?"

"You have always been succinct in your words when the time comes of you, and eloquence in excess to move the unchanging. That is why you answer to the Dvergar sobriquet 'Silvertongue'."

There are many names for Haraldr Hjortrson. He has given Haraldr the name of Silvertongue, because he speaks words and truths that one cannot deny. Others call him Liesmith, because he is skilled in severing the bind that lies have upon the truth. But in each Realm the context is a little different - and Time is ever changing the ways that certain things are.

"Your laudation is excessive, Master Ivaldi."

"No more nonsense, now. Time is short, and I have much to ask of you."

Haraldr steps closer, and so does Death.

 _He is… different to this world, Ivaldi knows. His parents fret over his lack of growth. His peers do not even talk to him. His relatives offer him kind words, but he knows them to be call him 'snæri' behind his back - a mere string which cannot even catch a dream._

 _But that all changes when the long awaited dreams start._

 _There is an exquisite chill in the darkness the further he goes in, and Ivaldi inches his way on the smooth floor, knowing neither the height of the ceiling or the breadth of the room. His fingers find the source of the cold, smoothly crafted metal flowing between his fingers. A sculpture, but not anything like the motifs of Dvergar ancestry. He carves the strangeness of the structure into his memory, and memorizes the unique textures that the metal has been molded into. He spends long hours in the mud floors, reworking the squishy mud with a variety of tools._

 _He finds himself back into the fold of his family and peers when his dreams start. The dreams are supposed to end after fourteen seasons, but his never fade. The dreams visit every night. He sees more of that masterpiece each time, and his fingers twitch at the thought of recreating it in reality._

 _The dreams find their way into reality a decade later, when he is finally old enough to participate in the ceremonial crafting: Sköpunarverkið. There is an odd sense of calm when the elders let open the great gates. There are tools of the finest quality made by artisans and material purified by the greatest miners, and his fellow peers swarm to grab the best - there is only a month to complete their piece._

 _Ivaldi has never had an interest in the sought-after items since the start - there is only so much perfection that one can generate with faultless matter itself._

 _Perhaps he is not a being that is different to the world - it is the world that is different to him, Ivaldi wonders._

 _The first week of Sköpunarverkið usually sees the outline of the masterpieces - aspiring lapidaries marking out their chosen medium, hardworking metalsmiths shaping molten metal. The second week is when the draumur veiðar becomes reality - more or less, but usually less because details from childhood dreams are like water - the third week is refinement. The fourth week is time for the slow ones to catch up…_

 _But that is not the case for him. With every minute of sleep he hoards, the details flourish._

 _He spends the first half of his allotted month in his own workroom recreating the hum of his sculpture. Many a disapproving eye has swept upon his choice of impure metals at the start, but Ivaldi pays no heed. It is what he needs. The third week passes too quick, and the fourth he spends without sleep, his hands guided by countless dreams._

 _His dreams do not lie, they do not sneer, they do not judge him._

 _And when the fourth week of Creation reaches its dying moments, Ivaldi is taken right away into the Chamber of Masters to begin his next work._

 _The works of the Masters - past and present - seem to be things explicitly born from grace and genius. Ivaldi wishes to trail fingers across the unfathomable surfaces of the metalwork, and feel the sheer impossibility that are these artworks, but his impulses are stopped by the chuckle of his mentor._

" _Do not spoil your perceptions, young one. Linger upon these for too long and you will find yourself ruined. These have been made through the principles of exchange."_

 _The principles of exchange are simple; all Dvergar children know them by heart. The Word is a wish, the Debt represents the wish fulfilled, and the Payment is the debt owed._

"I have clung onto life long enough - it has been a blessing to have met you. A thousand blessings more to have known you, and I have been impossibly favored to have shared my burdens with you."

"Master Ivaldi, please," The man is quickening his death with his exertions, and Harry does not think that Ivaldi's sons will make it in time to see their father while the old mastersmith is still breathing.

His dying moments draw closer, "You just choose not to realise, Haraldr. But the time will come. It will find you, and you will know enlightenment. You will have to make a choice. And you will have to be strong enough to bear it."

 _The hand moves to slide his eyes shut._

 _Truth, unobscured._

 _Ivaldi knows that he lives in a short flicker of infinite awareness._

 _The hand that touches his skin is flesh and bone of an impossible origin. Born in the future, forged in the past. And yet, it is in this fragile entity that the laws of the cosmo have come to rest in; the entirety of Yggdrasil and beyond._

 _It is eventuality that there will be destruction bled from the soma._

 _But where destruction is sowed, creation is reaped._

 _All of the secrets of the world, locked away… hidden away from everything, even its host._

 _Ivaldi shudders at the sensation of something searching the cosmos for this ultima._

 _But there is peace, because Ivaldi sees the crystalline shine of twin rivers from twin emeralds. He will not be forgotten._

 _Everything goes black._

The moment passes, and Harry is left with the weight of another soul. He leaves it to Death, and watches as Ivaldi's soul is taken away by gentle hands.

There is a pain that lingers here, along with all the anguish and sadness. But Ivaldi's words still linger, and his memories will last forever in Harry's head. He turns to look as the door swings open, and watches as Ivaldi's sons step slowly toward him.

Ivaldi's oldest, Brokkr holds something, and it looks as though his hands are weighed down by a waterfall of blood. The red cloth is stripped away, revealing a treasure of treasures.

"This is what my father has bequeathed to you, Silvertongue."

Harry has seen the masterpiece that came from Ivaldi's coming-of-age ceremony before. It is the crystallized essence of legend and myth, and the defining marker of Ivaldi's undeniable talent. It is a model of Yggdrasil, and on one branch perches a bird. It is tiny, but it has no lack in detail. It looks as though it could move any moment.

 _Mouth open wide as if in song._

 _Wings spread wide as if in flight._

 _Chest thrust proudly,_

 _straight into a wicked thorn._

 _There is agony and perfection, all in the same note._

 _A thornbird._

A bird of myth, always on the search in thorn trees for the perfect thorn. The sharpest, the most devastating of sharp edges to pierce its breast. And as it dies… sings the most mesmerizing song. And being so young of age… Ivaldi could never have seen a creature of flight, because there are _no birds in Niðavellir_.

 _Being touched by the_ _ **Dreaming**_ _, we feel the very veins of Yggdrasil._

 **a/n.**

 **Writing has just been continued, and it goes slow - my work schedule is incredibly inconsistent, and recent** _ **events**_ **beyond my control have me fretting of late. A million things to do but procrastination is always at the top of that list.**

 **I like world-building - always great fun. Of course, this interlude gives a little more flavor to the Dvergar in the past chapters as well as the next chapter.**


	17. Chapter 14

**A writer, I would fancy myself, if things would be. But take note, I do not write for others – I write for my own amusement, and my brand of storytelling is my own – I only share these worlds that I dream up.**

 _"A butterfly flaps its wings in the Amazonian jungle, and subsequently a storm ravages half of Europe."_

 **Neil Gaiman**

 _"We call them Urðr, Verðandi and Skuld. In Dvergar transliteration: the Word, the Debt and the Payment. The Word is an engagement to all parties on the desired outcome. The Debt defines what is due, the cost that must be paid. The Payment fulfills the contract in its entirety; it is the entity that sets the contract into motion._

 _The debt and the payment are indistinguishable to most - but if one falls short, one may substitute, or even make up the deficits himself to make the Payment. But such things are dangerous, and may even cost more than what one is willing to give up._

 _In some cases, even that of the debtor's all is not enough. That is far from where the tragedies end."_

The Hall of the Slain is empty except for the small crowd of people in front of the dais. Dáinn stands beside him, moonlight hide still damp with crimson.

Behind him are a few of Asgard's _model_ citizens. Thirteen lie dead. Nine have been rendered as cripples, injuries already treated and wrapped. Sixteen are bound and gagged - courtesy of Haraldr's best men. A total of thirty eight traitors to the throne of Asgard does Freyr present to the Royal Majesty of Asgard.

Freyr has his wrists in chains, kneeling before the King and Queen of Asgard. He will be the only traitor to the Realm instead of thirty eight if he fails to convey Haraldr's will.

"Freyr Njörðrson. Explain… your reasons for having laid chaos within the inner walls of Asgard," is the Allfather's calm voice. His eye, however, reflects that of a man who has had his authority challenged.

Haraldr is an eternal abyss of secrets, but Freyr is not incapable of inference and deduction. The men and women are of vastly varying ages, but they have one thing in common - none of them have been in the services of Asgard's inner walls for longer than five years. A few of the many recruited to fill the gaps in the domestic that had appeared after the war - domestic help who had left to return to their families who had suffered multiple losses.

Spies and moles.

"I, Freyr Njörðrson... am neither stranger to Haraldr's duties to the Court, nor the strange happenings within these inner walls, Allfather. The men and women behind me have fallen into the darker aspects of Asgard through no fault of their own - it is their collective actions that have damned them to the Shadow General's ire."

Freyr unfolds his palm to reveal the paper that Dáinn's master has entrusted him with, and Odin sends Huginn swooping down to pluck it from the flat planes of his hand.

 _usurpers through puppets_

 _blood tainted with intentions_

There is another line of words, and Odin rubs the paper with seiðr. His power permeates into the paper, and he watches as ink bleeds out from the faint grooves.

 _your dynasty trembles under the weight of twelve ambitions_

The words are reminiscent of five years ago. When he had awoken from Odinsleep, the paper had been gone, along with all of the clues to those that were wholly responsible. Hjortrson's words have never been clearer - now all twelve Houses are embroiled.

The rot has spread.

It takes them a while to remind their eyes to unsee, to get settled in the darkness. He feels the crawl of sensation on his skin that reflects Wormwood's movement in shifting positions.

They have the tactical advantage in their home Realm, forsaken and abandoned as it is. The lush darkness and all its creatures are mere memories, long disintegrated into ash and dust as the light ravaged the land. What little life has escaped underground, and this is where they have gathered to kill their quarry.

Bitterhand rolls his eyes as Wormword makes… quite the astute observation, "The trap has been triggered for quite a while. I wonder if the stag has decided to cut his own foot off with his razor-sharp antlers and escape, or die in place of his little fawn." Either way, neither father or son will survive.

Grendell is silent, as always, but Bitterhand can see the strain starting to show on their spellcaster's body. There is simply too much power that his fellow Svartálfar is channeling between Yggdrasil's vein and the spellwork prison - the odds of him surviving are next to nil even if this goes well.

The intensity of the hum powers down, and the three of them reach for their weapons. Between them are enough knives and collapsers to bring down an entire adult herd of _ch'rdilshi ts'khovelebi_ to get at the younglings. Even the Dark General who has placed Aflyse upon the royal throne to be the puppet Queen of the Dökkálfar will fall against their arsenal.

The prison gives way, and they ready their weapons to take down Haraldr Hjortrson.

The cluster of collapsers are triggered, drawing matter into the void with inescapable force.

Grendell watches with wide eyes as a nightmare steps from the artificial void. The knives that should have cut deep into flesh, are embedded in the far wall.

 _This is far beyond ability, brilliance, or competency. This is unbelievable, infinite power_ , Grendell thinks _, it towers over lesser beings like him. It draws an overwhelming terror, transcending any feelings of admiration and discontent._

His sense of self is thinning - he feels himself stretching to infinity.

The urge to breathe is a remnant instinct from being alive. The reflex to duck and dodge is something that he can't quite discard yet, but Harry comes to realize that he does not need it. His voice now is not something that the three of them can hear, but he says it anyway, just to keep what little autonomy he has left, " _ **I did not wish to become Death.**_ "

He reaches for his knives, and thrusts them deep.

 _...for those unfortunate enough to be presented..._

 _for the metal holds and binds energies like no other._

Bitterhand hears screaming when Grendell falls to the ground, dead. There is something inherently _wrong_. There is a murmur that he feels with every fiber of his being. The screaming stops, and it feels like a blessing.

His throat is raw. He watches as tendrils of silver swirl gently to Haraldr Hjortrson. The Ӕsir should be _dead-dead-dead_ ; two tiny silvered knives embedded deep into where his heart should be. There isn't any blood that seeps from the fatal wound.

Wormwood slumps to the floor.

Bitterhand follows soon after, feeling as though he watches through eyes not his own, as his vision moves towards an indistinguishable bundle on the floor.

All of a sudden, the approval of Master Malekith does not seem so important anymore.

Death lifts away from him like a dark shroud caught by the wind, and Harry pitches onto the ground beside his son.

Harry wonders what curse is upon him now, for one of the three now-dead Dökkálfar had struck him with a blow that leaves his vision obviously faulty - there are threads that run _everywhere,_ spanning from beyond solid objects right into the stark black of the tunnels. Some burn brightly into existence, and some fade out, but most stay strong.

He coughs nothing but dry air - the absence of the metallic tang of blood that should coat his mouth is glaring. He doesn't quite know how his son will fare; Harry only knows that his son is in a deep sleep, and _still alive_ by the grace of Iðunn's apples that now flows in his son's veins.

Perhaps he has always known, all along even in the endless void, and that gut-deep sickness in his first life had probably been one of the early signs.

The truth has always lain somewhere in his heart of hearts, far removed from everything else. That he would eventually have to sacrifice all that he has kept sacred. And the only thing that he has left will be the tattered memories kept in some semblance of preservation by Ivaldi's craftsmanship. Because the Master of Death will never die, destined to watch as others perish.

Replaying their deaths one hundred thousand times, because they will never exist again in this universe. As he had fallen through the void linking the future with the past, time had been erased, fuelled by Life. There are things that once were, but will never be ever again, and he thinks of his past and once-future. He turns onto his side, and begins to weep until he falls asleep.

Because that time is now nearly upon him again.

It is the light from the _samot'kheshi mchamelis_ that rouses him from the healing sleep - the Svartálfar call them 'paradise eaters', the first of heralds signalling the reign of infinite darkness coming to an end. They shine on him, and Harry cannot quite decide whether these are foretokens for the better or the worse.

He checks on Loki, and lets out a shudder of relief when his son is still breathing. The lips of his son are still held fast together by the monstrosity of Dökkálfar threads, and Harry wipes the vestiges of his own blood from his son's lips.

They have another stop to make before they can return to Asgard, then.

The red hot _sings_ with delight with having finally finished its final form. Brokkr lifts it from the furnace to drown its shrill cries into the ice-melt, feeling the rush of elation as the water surface settles. This is one of the moments that he feels closest to his long-dead father. There had been few memories as it was - very little to grieve over - their father was always shuttered away in the forge. The only sign that they had a father was the constant flow of wealth and food that was delivered to their door.

His senses are not yet honed, but Brokkr still feels it. Not quite a tangible sensation as his late father had once described, but it is enough to make the hairs on his skin stand on end at the slightest twinge. Someone not of Dvergar origin is making their way down the corridor a mere league away - too close to raise an alarm for Harkalegasta's guards - but it is a welcome guest, even if he does not use the Bifröst.

Impeccable timing.

His brothers too have felt it, and almost all of them place their tools down to greet their esteemed mentor, only þjazi staying behind to tend to the star-forge, and doing so with a show of reluctance. Egil wonders out aloud, if Silvertongue has brought more of other-Realm samples that he may turn into new raw materials.

But as the doors swing open, it seems that a greeting full of smiles is grossly out of center with the situation.

Gentle fingers trace over a parody of a wound sewn shut, and Harry watches with a growing despair as the Dvergar mastersmiths shake their heads.

"It is as you feared, Silvertongue. The threads are no simple things. They are… sentient, in a manner of speaking, and seem to know their purpose. Cutting them would release powerful toxins within, causing an infection within the body of the host itself. Time would not necessarily heal wounds of this dark a magic."

"And yet, leaving them be would be a slow death."

Brokkr watches Silvertongue conjures a long table alongside his child, and then feels his blood drain away as he realises the intentions of the Asgardian when he lies upon it, sharp blades appearing on the side of the table. "You cannot possibly mean…" _to take your son's place,_ are the words that hang between all of them.

"You must do so. Perhaps there is another way, but Dökkálfar curses are predictable this way. When you have children of your own, you shall understand. A fitting last lesson that I may impart to the sons of Ivaldi."

Disquiet falls over every single soul at Silvertongue's choice of words. This is the man who had kept Ivaldi's secrets of smithing until his sons had come of age to understand the intricacies in working the forge. Any other being, Dvergar or not, would have tainted by cupidity.

To be willing to die in someone's place - it is a hard lesson to stomach.

"I will not die, sons of Ivaldi."

 _Silvertongue_ , they call him. Some think that his words are like silver, spun in the likeness of a spider's threads.

 _Liesmith_ , they call him. They think that it means that he is well suited to crafting lies, but it merely means that he can unravel them with ease.

If it is the truth, all the better. Even as a lie, it is one that he desperately wants to believe in.

 _It is a dream. He watches two worlds at once. They appear to be twins, for what one has the other also holds. He feels a shudder as he searches deeper still - one world has more than the other - and then there is the soul-wrenching hurt when he realises the difference._

 _In one world, there is a shade of a whole dimension that once flourished. There are similar pocket dimensions where he knows to look, but this one is dwindling and grey. This is a dying folk, without the ability to hide from the witch hunting. The Deathly Hallows are not there to cloak them from Death herself. And where they run, Death follows._

The right of choice - between his desperate wish and Her will - has never been his.

He turns his sight upon his eternal companion, and finds that the resentment that builds is not directed upon her. There is unspeakable grief that howls for vengeance, but it is of no use, for there is no outlet. The signs have always been there, and so it is with the slide of a tear that he mourns the losses that have come from his gains.

The agitation is tight in her chest, and Freyja continues the braids in her brother's hair. He catches her hands when she tries to sneak flowers into his weave, the giggle that they share easing the burden a little.

They are closer to each other - always nearer in her heart than sister Frigga - because they have flourished together long before their memories, in their mother's womb. It makes the moratorium placed upon Freyr more bearable, waiting together like this.

They wait for news in their little prison in the heart of the forest of Asgard.

It is in the dead of the night that Heimdall hears his name. He has held vigil for nearly two weeks for the return of the man and his son - his Sight has grown weary indeed.

He twists Hǫfuð to unleash energy into the Bifröst, watching as the Rainbow Bridge surges with energy, and carries Hjortrson and son across from Niðavellir along with Ivaldi's offspring.

The little one is sleeping and seems well, if not a little paler than usual. It is no small measure of relief. The Shadow General of Asgard has a visage set in fatigue, but Heimdall cannot afford the man the scrutiny to find out the strangeness of that expression.

There are formalities to be followed, and the greeting is standard, "What manner of occasion graces the Realm Eternal with the Sons of Ivaldi?"

One of the six steps forward, "I am Brokkr, the one who works the stones till they shine. I speak on behalf of my brothers, for we have received Hjortrson's challenge, and have risen to meet it. I seek the presiding Ruler of the Banner of Ravens, and trust that he will judge our craftsmanship."

 _Interesting_.

"So I have Seen, and so I have Heard. I grant you entry to Asgard. And I welcome you, Hjortrson, back to the Realm Eternal."

The Dvergar clasp their hands in thanks, and Haraldr merely dips his head. The group steps onto the bridge, where Dáinn is already spearheading the rush of soldiers. The entourage sets off, and Heimdall follows with his sight.

If he were Silvertongue, he would have collapsed onto Asgardian ground as soon as he had touched it. The man has been awake for the ten days that the brothers have been with him - first singing his son into enchanted sleep, enduring each and every stitch of the black magic into the flesh of his lips, and then working at the forge alongside them - and yet he is seeing to their comfort before his own.

The chambers that he provides are the epitome of Dvergar comforts - a deep roaring fire situated in the corner, and remarkably fresh air without the windows.

There is seiðr that dances in the air: _**Rest well, sons of Ivaldi. There will be a long day ahead.**_

The thread of words disappear quickly along with the man.

Freyr wakes to the clatter at the window, and opens his eyes to see the pale glow of light through the window. He gets up slowly, careful to not wake Freyja. It is a hawk that tilts its head at him, and he opens the window to let it rest on one forearm. It nibbles at his finger affectionately, but as soon as he frees it of the heavy burden in the leather carrier around its neck, it surges off in a strong wingbeat. Freyja rouses as well, and reads the letter with bleary eyes in the dawning light.

They begin their morning ablutions, and make their way to the palace, even though the summonses to Valaskjálf are meant for the evening.

The closure of his eyes beyond a fraction of a second... draws nightmares toward him. The glimmer of absolute truth that he has seen is a blight upon his mind. And yet, he cannot shy away from the crippling fears - to hold in his heart what Death can touch.

 _and there are many things that She can touch._

He watches as the stars fade in the light of the rising sun, and turns to regard the twins. The gasps of breath is not unexpected, and Harry watches with tired eyes when they rush toward him.

Freyja's fingers start in a trembling arc towards Haraldr's face to rest on one cheek. There is tiredness scrawled in every line of his body. It is a horror to behold, to see her brother's face in such a state of mutilation. Her thumb moves to touch the black cord, but he moves a step backward, shaking his head. His eyes are shuttered, but his lips twitch with pain. She has vivid memories of the ends of those lips curling into a smile.

He sketches words into thin air with seiðr, and Freyja's heart drops when she reads it: _Curse._

Freyr is likewise frozen, but then her brother surges forward like windstorm, "Who did this?"

Long slender fingers sweep the empty space between them: _It does not matter, Freyr. The debts have been paid._

His brother can be ever vague, and Freyr turns his brother's head with hands as steady as he can make them. It could have been the work of Dökkálfar hands in return for Loki, but... the stitches are so perfect that even a seamstress would be proud.

His voice is close to a tremble as he speaks, "The Dökkálfar, or the Dvergar?"

The words dance again, as green eyes peek under half-mast lids : _This is no longer a matter of concern._

The punctures are still raw and bloody on Haraldr's lips.

Her twin siblings are already in Haraldr's set of rooms when Frigga arrives, and they greet her with a hug - she has not seen them since the moratorium her husband had placed upon them. There is a solemn air about them, and the twins bring her to see the sweet child that Haraldr has nurtured so well. The bruises are faded and healing - Frigga cringes at the thought of confronting the bruises in their freshness. He doesn't stir or even turn his face into her hand as she caresses one cheek, and Frigga feels the seiðr clinging as she draws away.

"He will remain under sleep - until the wounds have healed," informs Freyja. And it is for the best, for the healing draughts made by the Healers are not meant for such a young child. Frigga cannot imagine her own child lying bound under a interweaving of sleep spells like these, and feels wretched for the relief that this is not the fate of her son.

"And Haraldr?"

"He stepped out for a moment, to attend to his guests."

There are footsteps at the entrance, and Frigga turns to see Haraldr.

She steps forward toward him, and Harry falters in gathering the energy to deal with another of the Vanir siblings. Frigga frowns at his face, and Harry sighs. The glamour comes away at his bidding, and he sees the horror creep over her face.

 _Such a monster I have become._

There is a crowd that gathers in Valaskjálf, the babel of voices strong even beyond the great doors where Eitri and his brothers wait. His eyes are enchanted by the exquisite make of the door; shaped by Dvergar forefathers countless generations ahead of their own father Ivaldi.

Silvertongue has managed around the… speech impediment with the help of the Queen and her siblings, it seems. Haraldr stands closest to the door with his familiar, and the glamour is faultless to the eye. But Eitri can see the ripples of the glamour - the black of the stitches and the blood mottled together - in the delicate filigree of the embellishments.

There is the blare of horns, and the door glides open quietly. Silence falls upon the hall, and his brothers follow as Haraldr begins to move. The walk is long, past an endless count of faces who peer curiously, first at Silvertongue and then at the rest of them.

A tedious walk, that Eitri finds has ended all too soon, when both master and stag offer a bow to the grim Allfather.

"Allfather."

The voice he hears is only one, but it is perceived by many in differing ways. This is fragile seiðr at work here, carrying Haraldr's wordless utterance into words in all of their heads. The timbre of his voice is deeply elegant, and by the twitch of Þjazi's fingers, Eitri knows that there is a new formulation of metals that shall be tested out by the end of this visit.

"Haraldr Hjortrson," the Allfather's voice is deeply forbidding, and Freyr tenses. There is a great chance that all could go wrong - the Allfather's frustration at being called out to the great hall when the Twelve Houses are so close to mutiny is very great.

Thor stands by his mother on the right of the throne, and when he sees who it is exactly who approaches, his mother wraps one hand before his lips to quiet him.

Guðfaðirinn, and Dáinn. His godfather, who often vanishes unexpectedly, but never for so long, and never along with Loki. And now here he is, walking down the path with Loki nowhere to be seen.

There are _dwarves_ that follow behind his godfather - _each shorter than the other_ \- and Thor widens his eyes even further at the enchanted table that follows obediently at the heels of the group. It is covered in a large swathe of red, but Thor can feel the seiðr that pushes and pulls in waves.

The crowd murmurs at the deep tones of his godfather, and Thor's attention centers itself once again, "But justice has been dealt, and it is fortunate that the items crafted by the Sons of Ivaldi have all been left untarnished by the thieves. I will begin with your consent, Allfather."

They had thought that Hjortrson's absence was absolute, meaning that there would be time sufficient for another attempt on the heir's life.

 _Clever._ He would declare Haraldr Hjortrson sagacious, even. It is a feat of manipulation that no one could have imagined, even it it is merely fortuitous timing that the Dvergar had such items on their hands. To take the failed attempt at insurrection, and turn it into the celebration of the Allfather's reign with gifts for every member of the royal family.

The Queen and the Lady Freyja have received adornments - delicate and pretty enough even from so far away - but given the propensity of the Shadow General, have some alternative use, for Dvergar-made metals are far more versatile than any other Realm. There could be a formidable blade in every one of those glimmering trinkets.

The Lord Freyr has received the formidable Gullinbursti - an invention of lifelike likeness to a humongous albeit gold boar - in recognition and to hone his hunting skills. There is also Skidbladnir that the brother of the Queen gratefully accepts - a ship that does not rely on the winds, folding up to fit inside a pocket - but there is no doubt that this is a sailing craft for the Vanaheim-born siblings to escape.

The King receives Draupnir, an enchanted ring that eight golden rings fall from every ninth night. And then there is Gungnir that settles well into the King's hand - the Dvergar have named it the deadliest of all spears - and all in the Hall can see that it is a formidable weapon.

It is the heir that receives the most protection from the dark General, for the boy receives enchanted items that emanate distilled _power_. The iron gauntlets Járngreipr, and the belt Megingjörð, to hold the singular most powerful weapon ever to be placed in the hands of a _child_. The heir to the throne is adorned with the gauntlets and the belt, and then a hand is raised to name the short-handled hammer.

His godfather kneels in front of him, and Thor watches as long fingered hands help him to pull on the gloves, and to secure the belt to his waist.

The gloves are smooth on his hands, and Thor feels as _they_ flex his hands. There is energy that surges through him from the belt as well. Guðfaðirinn has a smile in his voice, "They are eager to guide you, Thor. You will allow her the power to create - she will allow you the power to protect. Never forget that."

"Now, can you hear her calling for you?"

Thor nods, following the lead of his godfather's hand on his wrist. His voice has taken on that mysterious quality as it does when they sit in the darkness, listening to stories of Hǫðskuldr.

"Call her name, Thor. Her name is молния."

There is a whisper of Hjortrson's voice into the Prince's ear. The heir calls it, and it rings true to its namesake, flying into the tiny hand as if it has always belonged, setting the walls crackling with lightning.

 **a.n.:**

 **This is ikki, with a long author's note. Currently I'm busy with work, academics (compulsory bridging course over the course of one year). Simply buoys me to read the reviews so far, and with some readers posing questions about this and that, here is my best attempt:**

 **My style is absurdly haphazard, something learnt from authors who have long left their chosen fandoms and have sadly deleted their works. Fandoms that are not even related to the MCU, HP and Norse Mythology circles that Transliterations is heavily based on right now.**

 **Foreign words, I try to use interchangeably with their English counterparts too, though there is a small glossary of sorts below for the current chapter.**

 _ **Dökkálfarian/Svartálfarian**_ _ **:**_

 _Shamelessly borrowed from the Georgian pronunciation, using internet translators._

 _ch'rdilshi ts'khovelebi_ _\- shadow beasts_

 _samot'kheshi mchamelis_ _\- paradise eaters_

 _ **THE REAL NORSE MYTHOLOGY (as explained by the Internet)**_

 _Skidbladnir_ _\- 'Assembled from Thin Pieces of Wood'_

 **The best of all ships, always having favorable winds and the ability to be folded up into pocket-size**

 _Gungnir_ _\- 'swaying'_

 **The deadliest of all spears**

 _Gullinbursti_ _\- Golden-bristled_

 **A boar that gave off light in the dark and could run better than any horse, even through water or air.**

 _Draupnir_ _\- 'Dripper'_

 **From the ring falls eight new golden rings of equal weight every ninth night.**

 _Mjölnir_ _\- derived from the verb mölva "To smash"_

 _Alternative name used: молния_ _\- pronunced 'molniya', meaning 'lightning'_

 **Hammer of Thor which never missed its mark and would boomerang back to its owner after being thrown, but it had one flaw: the handle was short. According to mythology, Loki's interference led to a brief stoppage of the bellows into the fire, causing Mjölnir's handle to become shorter than it should have been. Because of this, Thor had to wear the iron gauntlets Járngreipr to handle it.**

 _Járngreipr/Járnglófar_ _\- 'iron grippers/iron gauntlets'_

 _Megingjörð_ _\- 'power-belt'_

 **Doubles the strength of the wearer**

 **Also, here are the valid timeline hypotheses for your Wikipedia/Google pleasure:**

Multiple universes hypothesis

Branching universe hypothesis

Timeline corruption hypothesis

Erased timeline hypothesis


End file.
